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Chapter Text

“Baby-bird, baby-bird,
Chirping loud and long,
Other birds hush their words,
Hearkening toward your song.

Sweet as spring though it ring,
Full of love's own lures,
Weak and wrong sounds their song,
Singing after yours.

Baby-bird, baby-bird,
The happy heart that hears
Seems to win back within
Heaven, and cast out fears.

Earth and sun seem as one
Sweet light and one sweet word
Known of none here but one,
Known of one sweet bird.”

A. C. Swinburne.

It was a warm spring day in a little village by the sea. The grass was tall and green, the sky a brilliant blue, and birds sang chipper songs. Idyllic. Peaceful. Villages like these rapidly become a rarity in modernity. Grand metropolises expanded their borders, swallowing nearby settlements like a glutton, and the world spun quicker than a swallow flew.

Still, despite everything, small pockets of quiet had survived. This village happened to be one such pocket. It was home to farmers, field labourers, minute craftsmen, and a thirteen-year-old boy named Hans Westergaard.

Hans was like any other child in the village: he was born to a large family, he liked to play outside, he loved animals, and he was fascinated by metropolises. Envy was his sin whenever his brothers left the nest to go study at universities, and nothing delighted him more than when his mother took him to a city to run some errands.

While in many ways he was an average villager, there was one notable feature that set him apart from his peers and some of his brothers: Hans was a wizard!

Magic was similar to colouring or jawlines in that you inherited it from your parents. From his papa Hans inherited his red hair, green eyes, an inclination to drama, and his surname. His mother meanwhile gave him his jawline, his freckles, his gregariousness, and his magic.

In addition to this innate talent, his mother brought with herself a library’s worth of knowledge and traditions. The latter were quite influential in their household as upon a witch’s or wizard’s thirteenth birthday they must leave the home for one year to gain experience. This custom actually led to the meeting of Hans’ parents!

On the eve following her thirteenth birthday, his mother kissed her own parents goodbye and flew far, far, far away till she found a charming little village by the sea. She landed in the middle of the market square to the great surprise of the inhabitants. Her arrival caused quite a stir, and it caught the attention of a red-haired, green-eyed woman who had heard about witches as a child. Unlike her neighbours, the curious woman did not fear this girl; she asked her name, her trade, and whether or not she wished to lodge at her house.

The witch in turn said, “My name is Kristina Hammersmed. My trade is potion-making; and I would be ever so grateful to be your tenant!”

Smiling at the young witch, the woman took her by the hand and led her to a beautiful house at the south-western end of the village. “I’m called Josefine Westergaard,” she said. “I live with my husband and two sons, the younger being your age. If you ever need anything and I am not around then do feel free to ask him for help. As I am his mother I may biased, but my Erik is an obliging fellow.”

Miss Hammersmed would soon find this out herself. Having set up her shop at the greenhouse attached to the main house, she busied herself with brewing potions against common ailments and quickly noticed that that younger son inconspicuously brought her wildflowers, bowls of cherries, and on a particularly hot day a cup of pineapple ice.

With attentions lovingly paid, the young witch decided she rather liked this quiet boy. She liked him so much that although a year later she went home, six years later she returned to the village as the new Mrs. Westergaard and throughout the next two decades delivered thirteen sons.

Hans was their youngest, and now that he was thirteen it was his turn to leave the next. Technically, he been thirteen for several months already. He celebrated his birthday last November, but his parents refused to see him off at the start of winter.

So, the young boy spent the cold winter months listening to advice from his mother and wizard brothers whether he liked it or not.

On that warm spring day Hans lay on a bed of grass, listening to the weather forecast on his father’s radio. The reporter promised a warm evening with no rainfall, and that the fine weather ought to last for the entire week. He sat up, turned the knob on the device, picked it up, and ran home as fast as he could.

The Westergaard Family was the most respected household in the village of Knight’s Roost. Their home on Fifteen Lionheart Lane was a large, handsome edifice made of pale grey stone. Situated on rising ground, the property enjoyed close proximity to a freshwater brook and an evergreen grove. Colourful flowers bloomed as well. They hugged the walls of the house, lined the path to the front door, and burst with life from the greenhouse.

The latter was a work of art in of itself! Witches were not the only ones with unique traditions – it was custom for the men of Knight’s Roost to present their brides with lavish gifts. Some carved love spoons, others toiled away at their gardens, and Mr. Erik Westergaard renovated his missus’ greenhouse.

Stained glass in every possible shade painted Hans’ skin in a motley of colours as he ran into the greenhouse, which unbeknownst to him was higher and breezier than originally constructed.

“Mother!” he cried out. Then he saw a client of hers and added, “Oh, good day, Madam! Mother, did you hear the weather forecast? It said that tonight there will be no rains or hail! Only a warm breeze!”

“Hansel,” said Mrs. Westergaard, squeezing lavender drops into a beaker, “did you take your father’s radio without permission again?”

“He doesn’t mind!” said Hans defensively, running to her side. “I’ll fly off tonight!”

“What do you mean ‘tonight’?” demanded Mrs. Westegaard. “You said yourself that you’ll postpone the flight till next month.”

“Who knows what the weather will be like tomorrow! And the moon will be full tonight!”

Hans dashed from the greenhouse, leaving behind his stunned mother. Glass beakers bubbled, fumed. Mrs. Westergaard snapped her head back to the stove and cursed under her breath.

“Is he thirteen already?” asked the client. “Time flies, does not it? His flight – it’s tied to that witchy custom, yes?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Mrs. Westergaard, wiping the table clean. “An irrelevant custom if you ask me. It is entirely unsuitable to this day and age. Hans will do better staying at home and continuing his studies with me; but no, he absolutely must have his year abroad.”

The elderly client widened her hazy eyes with rediscovered clarity. “I remember when you came to our village,” she said. “Such a pretty young girl descending from the sky. She held herself with queenly dignity, observing us with unprecedented stateliness!”

Kristina blushed as a smile formed on her lips. “My parents were not very happy when I revealed to them my intention to accept the proposal of a country gentleman when there were urban lordlings aplenty.”

“They did bless the union, yes?”

“Oh, of course!” She decided not to mention how hers and her husband’s parents fought over wedding expenses and added, “I tried to convince my son to spend his year abroad with them. They live in a fine city, and despite their mature age they travel to grander metropolises yet. Imagine my dismay when not even the prospect of Paris or London tempted Hans to accept this arrangement. ‘What about my independence?’ he cried.”

The client laughed in sympathy at the maternal plight. Across the property, inside the family home, the boy scooped up his cat into his arms and dashed upstairs to his room, nearly knocking over his brothers along the way.

Hans energetically whipped out a leather suitcase from his wardrobe and started to pack. His brothers had given him a list of necessary items, so he ransacked his shelves accordingly.

“I love the enthusiasm,” said Sitron, his pet cat, “though maybe your decision a bit too hasty.”

“We’ve already postponed like five times,” complained Hans, dropping two nightshirts into the case. “My birthday was in November. It’s already the start of May!”

Sitron sighed, shaking his head, then calmly sat on the bed and watched his best friend compare two waistcoats. Mrs. Westergaard had forbidden her son from taking anything too fancy as the ordeal demanded durability. This scolding – plus the warning that he might ruin his nicer clothes – compelled Hans to stick to his wools and linens.

In went the toiletries, a pair of slippers, all his savings and birthday money, a slim photo album, and two books: Good Form for All Occasions by Mrs. Fernsen and a collection of fairy tales.

Hans went through his room like a midsummer storm. Sitron’s eyes widened when the boy fell to the floor flat on his belly and reached for a map tucked beneath the bed. Like the radio, it belonged to the master of the house and Hans discreetly took it from the study.

Time rendered the map tan and crinkly. Hans unrolled it on the floor, setting items on the four corners to keep it flat, and beckoned Sitron to join him. “Where should we go?” he asked. “How does this place look like to you?”

“Arendelle City?”

“It’s north of here. I heard an elemental witch my age lives there.”

Sitron cocked his head to the side. “Do we really want to go to a city with pre-existing competition? You’re not really good at anything besides flying.”

“Thank you,” said Hans flatly.

“I did not mean it like that!” said Sitron, frantic. “But it is true that you’ve always been better at things regular boys do rather than wizards. You sing and dance, play the violin, and ride horses; yet you’ve never been fond of brewing potions or studying incantations. Remember when Grandmama forced you to memorise the monsters in that massive bestiary? You told me you’d prefer death than another lecture on what sort of silver harms lycanthropes.”

Hans sighed. He couldn’t argue with the truth. Well, he could but he would not. “It’s such a bore,” he said. “And I suppose you’re correct that a sorceress might hamper our success, though frankly I see little practical use of elementals. So, they control water or air. Can they brew potions to soften the pain of arthritis like Mother?”

“I think,” said Sitron, “elementals offer their skills to bounty hunters.”

“Fair enough.” Hans sat up and crossed his legs. “Should we just fly around and see what looks nice? The more I think about it, the less I want to travel really far away. First, it will kill Father. Second, what will happen to us? I don’t fancy going somewhere I don’t speak the language.”

Sitron opened his mouth to say something; however, he was cut off by the sound of a car engine outside. Hans perked up, scrambling to the window and grinning at the sight of his father. “Father!” he shouted. “I’m going to fly off tonight!”

His father, who had just exited his automobile, furrowed his brows. “What? Hans, we planned to go camping next month. I even rented a tent!” he said, slapping the aforementioned tent on the roof of the car.

“I’m sorry!” apologized Hans with a sheepish laugh. “But the weather will be so fine tonight! I’ve no choice but to go!”

Erik blinked. Then he saw Sitron jump onto the windowsill as his son disappeared. The cat meowed in an apologetic tone before snapping its head back to presumably see what the boy was pulling from the depths of the wardrobe.

The man walked inside his house and was greeted by his wife. She sighed and said, “He will not budge. The best we can do now is to invite our neighbours and ensure Hans chose the correct things to take with him.”

“Shall I do the former?”

“That’ll be capital!” said Kristina, kissing him on the cheek.

Though she did not express it, the witch was of the opinion that her husband was far too indulgent with their sons. She also knew that Hans, being the youngest and therefore the most indulged, occasionally abused paternal affections to get what he wanted. Her mind meanwhile beat her heart, and Mrs. Westergaard planned to go through his entire suitcase to see it properly packed.

A flood must have swept through her son’s bedroom right before her ascent up the stairs. “Hans,” she said slowly, “where, pray tell, is the floor?”

“You’ll see it soon, Ma’am,” said Sitron, trying his best to fold clothes with his paws.

“I want to look at all my belongings before I leave them for a year,” answered Hans as he inspected his reflection.

“You will wear black,” said his mother straightforwardly, picking up books from the ground. “Our bloodline is formal and true; you do not descend from wannabe witches who think pink crystals and tattoos grant them powers.”

“Does formality and truthfulness necessarily equate to formal dress?”

“Yes.”

Hans looked down at his pale blue waistcoat. “Does that mean I have to take the black one? It’s threadbare,” he complained. Granted, his words were true: that article of clothing had gone through six brothers before it fell into his hands.

“It does not matter what you wear,” said Kristina, despite the fact that she secretly agreed with him – she was fond of her clothes too. “Your heart and soul are the most important aspects of you. Plus, black will forever be in fashion. It never goes out of style and there is class to a black-and-white palette. Now help me tidy.”

Downstairs, Mr. Westergaard stood over the phone and rung up the neighbours. Having spent his entire life in the village sans for the few years at university, the man was a steady figure in the community. He was present at virtually all weddings and funerals, attended every baptism, was an understanding landlord, and all-around a highly respectable gentleman. His invitations were warmly met, and the villagers excitedly prepared for the special event.

Once all the essential calls were made, Mr. Westergaard sighed and considered his near future. Steady life in the country suited him, and never had he been prouder of its charm than when it won over the love of a pretty witch from the big city. Quietly he hoped the reverse would not occur to his son should he travel somewhere far. It was difficult to reach most cities from their village as there were no train stations nearby and, more selfishly, Erik wished to keep his children close.

“You’ve memorized both books from cover to cover!” heard the man as he approached the blue door of his son’s bedroom. “Leave them and take this instead!”

“Who will buy potions from me in a large town? I bet they have pharmacies on every street!”

“When pharmacies are capable of selling anti-rheumatism elixirs at a fair price then we will be threatened. Till then, if you are in want of occupation you can set up shop and brew what I taught you.”

Mr. Westergaard pushed the door open and saw his wife and child bicker over a leather-bound journal which he instantly recognized. His wife had carefully written down every recipe since she was a maiden, and she copied what she deemed absolutely necessary into notebooks for their sons.

Hans lit up like the morning sun, abandoning his mother to her notebook in favour of running to him. “Father, I’m almost done packing!” he proclaimed, not noticing how Mrs. Westergaard slipped the notebook beneath the nightshirts in the suitcase.

“That’s wonderful,” said Erik warmly. His wife smiled at them as she left them alone. “Have you any idea where you will go? You must write to us as soon as you find a roof over your head.”

“Sitron and I will stay by the seaside!”

“To remind us of home!” added the cat.

“Can we take the radio, too?” asked Hans, his eyes wide as saucers. “Can we? Can we?”

Mr. Westergaard laughed. “I sensed this question was begging to be asked. And my answer is yes!”

“Hurrah!” cheered the wizard and his feline friend. Hans wrapped his arms around his father, face turned upwards in an excited expression. “I’ll take good care of it. I promise.” He sighed happily, then said, “Could you…could you pick me up one last time? Like when I was little?”

Although Mr. Westergaard thought that his son was still little, he kept it to himself – children Hans’ age fancied themselves adults and he was more than willing to humour him. Although Mr. Westergaard was no longer as energetic at forty-nine as he was at nineteen, age had not yet taken his strength. He placed his hands beneath the childish shoulders and lifted the boy up high in the air, spinning his son and laughing alongside him.

When he should have placed the boy on the ground, he instead continued to hold him in his arms and smelled his hair. “I swear,” he said, “just yesterday I saw you take your first steps. Now you’re flying off into the world.” He looked at his son sombrely and added, “Hansel, should things not go according to plan then promise me you will come home.”

“Everything will go according to plan!” protested Hans. “Mother said that we ought to hope I get lucky with my choice of city. I’ll send you a postcard the day after I arrange accommodations for myself.”

Erik pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Write often. In fact, I shall give you a stack of paper so you’ve no excuses to not write to us.”

Hans chuckled and held tightly onto his father. Excitement was his mood since hearing the weather forecast, but he would miss his parents and home. “Can I have the nice cream paper?”

“No.” Erik carefully set him on the floor. “It will crinkle on the journey.”

“This household is ridiculous.”

“Do not be cross with me,” he said. “You’ll have as much nice paper as you want when you come home.”

“And to whom will I write?”

“Well, I was hoping you’ll make friends wherever you choose to settle, dearest.”

Hans blushed. “I…Yeah, I—I definitely took that in consideration.” The answer felt disingenuous when he just realized that his mind was filled with adventures for him and Sitron that he completely forgot about making friends in his new town. “Will you give me my birthday money early?” he said, wanting to change the subject. “After all, I won’t be home for my birthday.”

“We’ll come visit you in November,” said Mr. Westergaard as they left the room.

“No advance then?”

“No advance.”

“Fine.”

***

The cool evening air worried Erik.

Hans had been chattering the entire day how the weather ought to be as fine as summer, yet the current breeze disagreed with his aging bones. Glancing at the boy, he saw that Hans – dressed in a handsome black waistcoat – was busy talking to his friends and brothers.

There were thirteen Westergaard boys, and each had his own opinions he wished to impart on the youngest of the batch before his flight. Emil – the ninth son – excitedly spoke of high fashion in grand cities like London and Paris while eleventh born Harald clapped his hands as he commanded his brother to write him of the new patisseries he shall try abroad. Markus, the tenth, warned the young wizard to mind where he flew while Maron – the twelfth born with a passion for the supernatural – spent the day bullying his brother till he promised to inform him of any interesting paranormalities he might encounter.

The older sons laughed as they conversed with the neighbours, who buzzed with excitement – it was not every day a young wizard flew from their humble village. Erik slipped back into the house. His wife strengthened the ties on her broom, and he kissed her on the cheek on his way upstairs to grab a black cardigan.

“Oh!” remarked Kristina upon his return. “I knitted that for Josef when he was fourteen, did I not?”

She reached out to touch it, satisfied that it was in decent condition after so many years. The cardigan was fit for a young wizard: black with crescent moon-shaped buttons.

“I wish he was a homebody,” said he softly.

“I know,” said Kristina, fixing his tie. “The tradition is outdated, though I suppose it will teach him independence. Hans is a clever boy.”

“A boy.”

“I left home when I was thirteen, and so did some of our older sons.” She smiled. “And we shall analyse his letters to the tee; should he be hiding any troubles then I’ll fly after him to see that he’s alright.”

That was the benefit of a witchy wife: fast travel.

Husband and wife walked outside as it was time to bid their child goodbye. Hans ran up to his parents, whose anxious eyes were affixed on an unfamiliar broom in his hand. “You aren’t going to use that thing, right?” asked his mother.

“I am!” He grinned. “I made it myself today. Is it not handsome?”

Mrs. Westergaard frowned. “It’s thin, weak, and totally unsuitable for serious travel.” She offered him her larger, sturdier broom. “You will use mine.”

“Mother!” complained Hans, his cheeks flushing. “It’s…old.”

“I prefer the term ‘tried and tested’! This madam survived storms and hails, will not be cowed by the loudest thunders, flies straight, and will keep you safe.”

“I worked very hard on my broom,” muttered Hans. “What do you think, Sitron?”

The calico cat, sitting atop the messenger bag worn by his companion, peered at the parents (particularly the anxious father) and said, “I think we should use Mama’s broom.”

Hans widened his eyes, scowled, and in an annoyed tone said, “Traitor.”

“Why don’t you make a new broom when you land in the city,” said Mr. Westergaard. “It shall be a grand way to mark a new beginning.”

Lips pursed into hard line, the young boy nodded and reluctantly swapped brooms. He received a kiss from each parent, was made to put on the cardigan, and was scooped into a tight hug by his eldest brother.

Hans, after struggling to escape from the embrace, ran to the main road and swung his leg over the broom handle to the cheers of Emil, Markus, Harald and Maron. Wind lifted his red hair as he prepared to fly; Sitron tucked himself inside the cardigan for warmth while Hans hovered over the ground. Then he smacked the broom and shot off into the starlit sky.

And immediately the young wizard crashed into an oak tree, setting off the bells tied to thick branches. Then he crashed again, and once more for good measure.  

Everyone winced at each clash, and Kristina already thought she’d have to bandage whatever bruises her son obtained when they noticed that it had gone still. Looking up, a small dot rose in the distance, serenely soaring in the darkness.

“We won’t hear those bells in a long time,” said a neighbour with a sigh. “That is, unless, Mrs. Westergaard has some news to break to us?”

“Mr. Reenberg!” scolded the witch. So she had delivered thirteen with the first twelve being born almost back-to-back – her childbearing years were over. “We will never hear the end of it if Hansel came back and is greeted by a younger brother. Why, I dare say he’ll simply hop back onto his broom and fly off for a month out of spite!”

The people shook with laughter. They would miss their youngest resident wizard; they hoped that the boy will come back with a bright smile on his sunny countenance and interesting stories upon his tongue in twelvemonths’ time.

Kristina ushered the guests into the house for supper to celebrate the momentous event. She waved her hand to summon the last figure before realizing it was her husband. Oh, dear, she thought.

Moving to his side, the witch rested her head against his arm. “He will make many friends.”

“I’ve no doubts about it.” Erik wrapped an arm around his wife. “We will see him in November, right?”

“Of course, we will!” Kristina sighed. “I’d like to see where and with whom he lives since I’m sure he’ll be filtering information in his letters.” She turned to him. “Let’s go inside. I made pineapple ice and if we don’t hurry then Harald will eat it all.”

With his wife leading him to the dining room, Erik allowed himself one last look at the night sky and quietly hoped the year to come would be kind to his son.

Chapter Text

“I got a pocketful of poetry
I’ve got a head full of songs
A heart with wings
You couldn’t tie me down to anything
And that’s enough for me.”

Mindy Gledhill.

“To where are we flying?” asked Sitron, poking his head from the cardigan.

“Somewhere picturesque, I hope!”

Wind pushed against the young wizard as he shifted his weight on the broom. While his hands were busy gripping the handle, he asked Sitron to turn on the radio which hung in front of them. The cat gingerly emerged from the cardigan and swiped his dark paw against the knob.

Cheerful, upbeat music filled the night air. Hans was a musical person, and was as fond of hearing good music as he was of playing it. It was a pity that he had to leave his violin behind, but that just meant his brothers will not be allowed to scold him for playing hours on end when his year is done.

Still, a violin was nowhere near to flying – it was the best thing about being a wizard. Everything under the sun paled in comparison to seeing the world from up above; it was as if you were an angel glimpsing at earth from the heavens. Automobiles were ants running beneath him; glowing windows shimmered like stars; ravens and crows flew beside him before swooping low or soaring high like nocturnal Icaruses.

The further he flew from his village, the taller and grander the buildings became. Hans marvelled at a lofty cathedral and its gothic spires, then he yelled when an airplane flew over him, and finally he covered his nose in disgust when they passed by a manufacturing city – which his father considered to be dirty, smoky places – and scowled at the strange factory men beckoning him to land.

“Oh, this city will not do at all,” he murmured, picking up speed.

Customs dictated that though children had a right to pursue whatever trade they liked best, they must be taught their parents’ craft to be able to provide for themselves. One glance at this factory-speckled city impressed on Hans that its people had no need of a potion-brewer. They’ll sooner call me a charlatan, he thought as it faded in the gloom.

Being thirteen, Hans was given a broad education that ought to enable him to wisely pick his trade. Currently, he considering flying as his trade but that option was not exactly applicable in a community where most practitioners were able to do that as well. His brothers practiced a variety of arts and each was tempted to persuade our hero to follow his respective footsteps. Their trades were as followed: herbology and potion-brewing, oneiromancy, transfiguration, curse-breaking, and enchantments.

A paw kneaded his back. Sitron pointed his little hand eastwards, where a witch in a deep violet dress bedecked in accessories flew in the company of a black cat. Curious, Hans approached her and said, “Good evening, Miss.”

“Good evening,” said the girl, assessing him. “Are you new?”

“I am,” admitted Hans. He was still discontent that his flight was postponed by several months. “I left my home today, actually.”

The girl faced forward. “Could you please turn off the music? I like to fly in silence.”

“Oh, of course.” He turned the knob, stopping a jazzy tune midway. “Excuse me,” began Hans, “but may I ask you if it was difficult to adapt to life in a new city?”

“It depends from witch to witch.” The girl opened one eye and smiled complacently. “I’m a fortune-teller, so my year abroad was as successful as can be.”

“You’re a diviner?”

“I’ll be learning geomancy!” said she proudly. “What’s your trade?”

“I—” he was about to reveal that he hadn’t picked anything, then he quickly said, “Potion-brewing.”

“Oh!” The witch nodded approvingly. “That’s a wonderful trade.”

“Thank you!”

“My year is coming to a close,” she said. “I can’t wait to go home and boast of my accomplishments.” She gestured at forward. “Do you see that city over there? That is where I’ve established myself. A small town, but charismatic. Well,” she nodded, “I wish you good luck in your future.”

“Thank you, and farewell!”

“Goodbye!”

Hans and the girl waved each other off. She descended upon a vibrant, glamorous city the likes of which he only saw in foreign films his brother Emil liked. Neon lights decorated the signs of what he thought were night clubs and restaurants and casinos. It was a spectacular city, and one that would earn the disapproval of his old-fashioned parents. It’s pretty, he thought, yet it is not by the sea. Perhaps I can visit it sometime in the future though!

“She’s very proud,” commented Sitron with a huff. “Did you notice how stately her cat was? I feel like I belong to a barn in comparison.” He pressed his head against Hans’ stomach. “Why’d you lie to her about your trade?”

“Because the truth is embarrassing, Sitron,” he said. “She’s a diviner while I just fly around and brew anti-rheumatism potions because it makes Mother happy.” Hans turned to his friend. “What should I master, anyway?”

Scarcely had he uttered those words when lightning struck, missing them by the breadth of a finger. Both screamed, and the wizard especially started to curse the weather forecast for betraying him on such a special night.

They lowered their height at once – that was what he was taught to do if caught in heavy rain – and Hans rapidly scanned the horizon for shelter while Sitron, relieved to see that the suitcase had not slipped from the handle, wiggled inside the messenger bag.

A train was parked in between thick trees; Hans sped towards it, ignoring Sitron’s observations of its obvious purpose of carrying cargo instead of people or cats. As he spoke, Hans took note of an open window roof and jumped inside, landing onto soft hay. Closing the latch, he inspected to see if anyone was home; once he saw that they were alone, he firmly decided that they will rest here until the rain subsided.

“Do you think we will be punished for being here?”

“No one can punish us if they do not find us,” said Hans, crawling to a dryer spot and stripped himself of his clothes. “How lucky we are that I insisted to bring a leather suitcase and a messenger bag.”

“Why is the hay swaying?” asked Sitron, not caring for his friend’s smugness.

“Don’t know. It smells wonderful though!” exclaimed Hans, grabbing a heap of it and covering himself with it as if it was a velvet blanket. “Come, let us sleep so we can start tomorrow on the right foot.”

“I miss Mama and Papa,” said Sitron, curling up into a small ball. “The guests have probably gone home by now.”

“Which means Mother is hexing the kitchen to tidy itself,” imagined Hans aloud. “And Father is smoking his pipe on the porch, making sure the dogs do not run after me. I cannot wait to write them a letter detailing this incident! Father will have such a shock (literally) when I tell him how we were nearly struck by lightning.”

Sitron sighed. He had known Hans since he was a kitten and had the joy of seeing him grow from a saucy nine-year-old to a saucier thirteen-year-old. Earlier that day – when Hans took a bath – Papa and Mama beseeched the cat to look after their son; to make him happy and lively should his high expectations meet a disappointing reality.

Snuggling closer to his best friend, the calico cat pressed his face against his with a soft meow. As exciting their new adventure was, it seemed he’d have to advise his friend to not run himself haggard upon encountering the sparkling, shining world outside their village without the all-knowing eye of a parent or older brother keeping him in line.

***

At about eight o’clock the next morning, Hans woke up to the sensation of something licking his bare foot. He jolted awake with a yelp – startling Sitron from his sleep – and laughed as he failed to properly sit up in a pile of swaying hay.

Twisting and turning, the boy dug through the hay and peeked into the lower compartment where he saw a bevy of breakfasting cows. “Oh, I’m sorry!” said Hans to the livestock. “I had no idea we slept in your morning meal.”

After apologizing to the cows, Hans folded up his dried clothes and placed them into the leather suitcase from where he pulled out a fresh pair of trousers, a yellow shirt, and a blue waistcoat. The boy was partial to bright colours, and he was determined to be the picture of a model tenant in his search for a new home.  

Dressing for the day gave the boy an opportunity to really think about his plans. Throughout the winter, his mother and brothers gave him plenty of advice that he had ignored at the time and which now flooded his mind. Mrs. Westergaard was very lucky, having found lodgings within a quarter of an hour after landing in the village square. Meanwhile her oneiromancer and curse-breaking sons just…sought out the most cursed houses in their respective cities and told the landlord they’d unhaunt the house in exchange for a flat.

Tragically, oneiromancy was difficult to master for those who were born without the natural talent and Hans could only break the simplest of curses – he was much better at enchantment.

His mind was riddled with possibilities; however, they vanished like mists in daylight when he pushed open the latch on the roof and saw a shimmering sea. “Sitron!” he exclaimed. “Look at the sea! Does it not remind you of home?”

Sitron raised his head and smiled. “It’s pretty,” he agreed. “And I see a city in the distance!”

The cat was right: there was indeed a city further up the coast! Hans reclined back and wondered whether there was another wizard there. “We already avoided Arendelle City because of that elemental girl,” he said.

“Most witches these days flock to big boy cities like London.”

“True.” Hans smiled. “Well, let’s check it out!”

Bidding the cows goodbye, the pair hopped onto the broom and flew towards the city at a leisurely pace. It was a fine day. The sun beamed like a debutante at her ball, and gentle breezes brought with them their characteristic salty smell that had accompanied the wizard his entire life. Hans marvelled at the sight of terraced houses reaching all the way down to the shore, the dull red-bricked mansions peppering the urban silhouette, and he was most pleased with the tall, handsome, grand, magnificent clock tower.

“It looks exactly like how Father described them to me!”

“Hans,” said Sitron, clutching to the messenger bag and keeping an eye on the suitcase, “this city is bigger than I thought. What if there is already a witch here?”

“What if there isn’t?” countered Hans, heading to the clocktower. “You did say yourself that most witches and wizards go to sprawling metropolises these days and this city is not as big as London I imagine and—look at how many automobiles there are here! And the market is so very big!”

“Maybe Mama was the wisest witch of her generation,” murmured Sitron. “Choosing a village over this urban hub-bub.”

“I bet you’re complaining simply because you were a village cat your whole life,” said Hans with a sneer.

“A witchman!” cried a masculine voice. “I cannot believe my eyes!”

Hans and Sitron turned around and saw an elderly man standing on the balcony of the clocktower. “Good morning, sir!” greeted the former, edging closer to the structure. “Might I inquire if your city already has one of my kind?”

“No,” answered the old man. “It’s been ages since we last had a resident witch or witchman in Corona City.”

“Did you hear that, Sitron?” asked Hans. “It’s decided: we will spend the year in this city! Thank you so much, sir!”

“You’re welcome, child!”

One of the strange things about the modern world was that many people believed that magic was gone or never even existed in the first place. The situation had been exacerbated by the fact that young witches either travelled to the largest, most populous areas they can reach or hid themselves in small villages or the wilderness.

The magical community was aware of this predicament, and so they knew that the best way for novices to establish themselves was to secure a settlement with no competition. While they would have to fight sceptics, who’d deny the existence of the supernatural in the face of lycanthropes or noonwraiths, they would also naturally attract customers curious to see a representative of that mysterious group of people. Divinations and enchantments were eye-catching trades – fantastic for attracting patrons from around the globe.

Hans Westergaard was a promising child, but his interests were scattered and he loved flying better than anything – it’d be a challenge to pick a trade.

Those troubling thoughts were currently the last thing on his mind. He was captivated by the sights, the sounds, the smells, etc., and did not care that he was no gifted curse-breaker that were highly sought after by quarrelsome individuals of every creed.

As the boy took in the marvellous city he’d found by chance, the denizens of said city marvelled at the boy. The old man in the clocktower did not lie when he imparted information to them; it had been decades since the city had last been graced by a witch, therefore the people gasped and gawked at the passing wizard and his feline companion.

“Hans.”

“Yes, Sitron?”

“Everyone is staring.”

“I know,” he whispered back. “Smile. First impressions matter. Remember how Mother presented herself to the entire village when she arrived?”

And by way of proving the importance of first impressions, Hans almost smashed into a bus. Then he flipped upside down and startled more than a few drivers into rough stops. Afterwards, the broom decided it knew best and plunged them into a throng of people.

Hans tightened the grasp on the handle and forced it to ascend, allowing them to hide behind a corner of a building. He lowered onto the ground, gently setting his feet on worn pavement. People stared at him. Anxious and flustered, Hans quickly remembered his mother’s story and politely introduced himself to the staring crowd, who departed the scene as soon as the crossing lights switched colours.

Confusion was him. He blinked at the people, all hurrying somewhere for reasons known only to themselves. Everyone at Knight’s Roost got offended if you hurried for no good reason – you were expected to stop and chat with all the neighbours, even if the conversations lasted mere seconds.

A policeman ran to him from across the street, startling Hans by demanding to know what he was thinking plunging above a busy street and nearly causing an accident. “What makes you think you’re allowed to fly around town in this unruly manner?” demanded the officer.

“I'm a wizard, sir.”

“Wizard or not, roadside rules must be observed by everyone!” He pulled out a small notepad. “What’s your full name and address?”

“Will you inform my parents?” asked the boy regretfully.

“I’ve no choice,” answered the officer. “You’re underage, thus they are responsible for you and your actions.”

Hans cringed at the prospect of his furious mother when some pedestrian loudly screamed that there was a thief. The policeman snapped his head in attention. Turning his head forwards and backwards, he took a sharp breath as the voice grew more distressed.

“Don’t—don’t you go anywhere! Stay right here until I come back!” he ordered the wizard before dashing into the masses.

Hans did not stay right there. In fact, he took several steps backwards and then ran into the opposite direction. He ran and ran till he reached a quiet neighbourhood where, with a lowered head, he hoped to be the picture of unobtrusiveness.

First day in a city and he already caused damage! Hans flushed red, hurrying his pace to the point that Sitron had a hard time keeping up with him.

“So,” began Sitron, jumping onto his shoulder. “That was a memorable first impression, don’t you think?”

“It was awful,” mumbled the wizard. “Terrible. We’re leaving this city tonight.”

“Aw, you’re over-reacting!” The cat pressed his face against his master’s. “Remember how Grandpapa said that he managed to be evicted twice within two weeks after leaving home?”

“That’s different!” Hans pursed his mouth. “I caused an automobile accident.”

“Not true. The officer said you nearly caused one; two very different matters.”

Just as the two began to debate technicalities, they were interrupted by the obnoxious honk of a bicycle followed by an excited voice. A boy who appeared to be his age – maybe a year or two older – cycled beside them with mischief smeared across his sly countenance. His eyes and hair were the colour of walnuts, and he kept the latter tied into a high ponytail. Bleached jeans, a bright bandana, and a popped collar told Hans everything he needed to know about this boy: he was a hooligan.

“How’d you like that?” he demanded. “I was the one who cried ‘thief’ earlier – to distract that cop for you. How cool was I?” The boy laughed. “And you! Are you a witch? I saw you fly about in the sky! Can I see your broom too? To inspect it?”

They passed a group of boys loitering on the street, one of whom teased this boy for sucking up to a newcomer. He laughed it off, told them to shut up, and slowing his bike he asked Hans, “Will you show me your broom?”

Hans (whose embarrassment grew with each paid attention) turned sharply toward this unknown boy. Although his mood was foul and his stomach empty, he was a gentleman’s son and gentlemen’s sons were well-mannered creatures.

“Thank you, Mister, for helping me escape that policeman,” he said. “But I did not ask you of this, and you ought to know better than to speak with strangers.”

Then he continued to walk heavens knew where, hands grasping tightly at his suitcase and broom.

The boy – instead of being upset at the rather brusque tone – grinned wider and caught up to the wizard again, saying, “You really are a witch! Like in the stories!”

For clarity’s sake, it should be noted that witch, wizard, and witchman were NOT interchangeable terms. Hans’ whole soul riled with indignation against this boy for the misuse of the words that was curiously absent when he spoke with the old man of the clocktower. Meanwhile the boy had no idea of the nuances of the magical community. No wonder it struck him odd when this newcomer angrily said, “I will have you know that men cannot be witches. I’m a wizard. Now leave me alone!”

With those words uttered he slinked into an alley, startling the boy who had to stop his bike to follow him. He quickly realised that that was not a viable option as he saw that the not-witch witchboy had flown off into the bright blue sky.

He stopped in his tracks, staring at the ever-diminishing silhouette. The beauty of it! The last magic-user to live in this city had left long before this boy was born, so to see his peer travel on what should be the most mundane object in the world stole his breath.

“Oh,” said the boy. “I have got to find him.”

***

Searching for lodgings was, needless to say, more difficult than either Hans or Sitron had expected.

Mr. and Mrs. Westergaard had given their son cash to pay for a room until he had a steady income of his own. What Mr., Mrs., and Master Westergaard had not taken into account was the want of every urban inn for adults and passports; that had not been the case when Mrs. Westergaard was Miss Hammersmed, and she could not be blamed for the wheels of time imposing new practices where it saw fit.

Sandwich on his lap and cat resting beside him, Hans sat on the stone steps leading to a statue of Herz der Sonne – a long-dead king of this fine city. Sitron licked his dark paws, eyeing his friend with some concern. “Won’t you eat?”

“I’ve lost my appetite. You can have it if you want.”

Sitron swallowed, observing their surroundings. “The sun is setting.”

Hans sighed his acknowledgement. Having lived his whole life in a little village where everyone knew everyone, the provincial capital felt…lonely. Knight’s Roost was tender to its denizens and the denizens were in turn warm to each other. It was inconceivable for any villager to sit by their lonesome self without a neighbour cajoling (or, depending on their disposition, ‘harassing’) them into their house for a cup of tea and gossip. Hans just knew that if Mr. Reenberg had seen him with this sad frown then neither of them would be at peace until the former saw the latter with tea, a slice of pear pie, and a smile on his face.

“What do you think Mama is doing right now?” he asked his friend.

Sitron raised his head at the question. “I reckon she’s watering the plants for the evening and checking on the fruit preserves before going into the house proper.”

“What about Papa?” asked Hans. “How is he busying himself?”

“Papa must be in his library, and he will be there surrounded by his books and maps and atlases.” Sitron purred. “Why, I believe he must be poring over his atlases as we speak, wondering where we shall live!”

Hans smiled at the image. The Westergaard Family was comprised of readers; it was natural that their patriarch would hold his tomes near and dear to his heart. It had actually become a domestic joke that Mr. Erik Westergaard without his publications was like a king without his crown and royal sceptre.

“I do hope Papa does not worry himself a headache,” said Hans. “And I certainly hope that Harald does not over-sugar his tea – he forgets that Papa’s tooth is not as sweet.”

“No one has a tooth as sweet as Harald’s.”

“That is true!”

This domestic talk distressed Sitron greatly, especially how his friend switched from polite addresses in favour of more affectionate words. It had been at least three winters since the wizard regularly called his parents ‘Papa’ and ‘Mama’; these days they were reserved for the privacy of the house and moments of tenderness, not idle chats in a park beneath the gloomy gaze of a statue.

Police siren cut through the serene air like a dagger. Sitron rolled his shoulders in preparation of a long walk. Hans wrapped up the uneaten sandwich, placing it in the messenger bag. “Let’s go,” he said in a low voice.

Corona City was both like and unlike the cities the pair had visited in the past. The Westergaards enjoyed travel; however, keeping thirteen sons under control in a foreign city was a Herculean task. Thus, Hans rarely had the chance to explore urban areas by himself.

While Corona City in his opinion as grand as Konigsburg – the closest metropolis to their village – it was blessedly quieter than the latter, making it more suitable to a boy fresh from the countryside.

The duo walked up the hill on neat cobblestones, listening to the clocktower ring as it marked the seventh hour. Hans rested his elbows on the stone railings at the end of the street, watching the sea shimmer in the orange glow of the sunset.

“Would you really like to search for another city?” asked Sitron, curious. “This is a nice place, all things considered.”

Hans kept his silence.

An expecting brown-haired woman in a lavender dress then ran up to them, panting hard and holding a pink pacifier. “Ma’am!” cried the woman as she waved the little thing. “Ma’am, you’ve forgotten your soother! Ma’am!”

Hans directed his attention to whom the woman was calling and saw a mother pushing a pram down the street.

“How terrible!” said the woman, sighing. “Her baby will now cry without any relief.” Then she quickly walked toward a small bakery, opening its door to apologize to the customers as she had a quick errand to run.

“Ma’am?” said Hans, addressing the woman. “Let me bring the pacifier.”

“You?” she asked.

“It’s the madam pushing a pram, right? The one in the pink dress?”

The woman blinked before a smile split her face. “Yes! That’s the one!” She handed over the pacifier to Hans. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure!” said Hans as he dropped his suitcase on the pavement. “Sitron, hop on!”

The woman cocked her head in bewilderment that was swiftly replaced by pure horror when the boy climbed onto the railing and jumped with the ease of a madman. Hands flat against the cold stone, she leaned forward to see what became of the poor boy.

Her shock doubled at the sight of him flying.

Wonder was the first emotion she felt now that she was assured that the boy had not splattered on the cobblestones like a spoiled tomato. She could hardly believe her eyes as she admired the young wizard in action.

A few metres below, Hans delighted at the opportunity to redeem himself for this morning’s unfortunate… incident. The policeman was not likely to forgive him, but at least his own heart would beat easier knowing he did a good deed that day. He landed right in front of the pram and offered the pacifier to the mother; however, the baby started to cry for want of its soother and the wizard obliged.

His suitcase was nowhere to be seen upon his return. “Maybe the woman took it?” suggested Sitron. “She works at that bakery, I think. We have to give this note to her, anyway.”

The bakery bustled with business, and a warm smell of cinnamon and nutmeg greeted the wizard. Customers lined up in an orderly-ish queue as they bought their daily bread. Hans stepped to the side as to not block the door.

“Ah, there you are!” said the woman, standing at the till. She dropped five copper coins into the register and opened the door at the side to escort her final patrons, bidding them well. Hans gingerly gave her the note from the mother and child, and she read aloud, “I received the soother. Thank you very much.”

“I ought to leave now, Ma’am,” said Hans, hand pushing down the door handle. “It’s getting dark.”

“Hold on,” said the woman, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Won’t you come in for a bit? We are just about to have tea and I’d love it if you joined us.”

“I would hate to impose.”

“You will not impose! The work day is done and you’ve done me a great favour.” She graced him with the warmest smile he had received that day. “Come, come!”

The woman clearly refused to budge. Hans glanced at Sitron, who shrugged, before hurrying after the mistress. “My name is Johannes Westergaard,” he said. “But everyone calls me Hans.”

She perked up at the polite tone of voice, amused by the boy’s formal and old-fashioned diction which country gentlemen were inclined to possess. “My name is Arianna,” she said as they walked upstairs. “My husband whom you saw downstairs is called Frederic. My daughter’s name is Rapunzel – she is with her friend right now. Would you like black tea or green?”

“Black, please. With milk,” said Hans, taking a seat at the table. “What should I call you?”

Arianna started at that. “What?”

“Your surname, Ma’am?”

“Ah!” Arianna sized up the young boy, whose big round eyes watched her with an owl’s keenness. “There’s no need for formality, dear. Just call my husband and I by our names; we won’t take offence.”

He pursed his lips into a hard line and shot his cat a questioning look.

Arianna had no experience with sorcerers, and this lad in her kitchen had the bearings of a fine gentleman from the rustic country – the last place she’d guess a wizard would live. His manners, clothes, and accent were older in style though, so she supposed the child hailed from an exceptionally small village that slipped past urbanisation.

Setting two cups of tea and a bowl of milk on the table, Arianna sat across the wizard and winked at that handsome cat of his that was not black. “Thank you,” said the wizard, spooning honey into the liquid.

“You’re welcome,” said Arianna, drinking as well. “Have you found a place yet?”

Hans cast his eyes down and laughed nervously. “Sitron and I might travel elsewhere.”

“Why? Is the town not to your liking?”

“A more appropriate question, I believe, would be whether we are to the town’s liking,” said Hans, petting his cat. “We don’t think this city likes us very much.”

Arianna’s expression gained a more sympathetic character as she listened to the sad child. “The city’s big, and the larger the city the more opinions it’s got. Maybe some residents found you a nuisance, but I liked you as soon as I saw you! And if you’ve nowhere to sleep then I’d be more than happy to house you; we’ve a spare room.”

“Really, Ma’am?!” exclaimed the wizard as he shot up from the chair, frightening his cat by accident.

“Yes, of course,” laughed Arianna. “Also, Hans, I remind you that there is no need for ‘madams’ and ‘sirs’ here.” She stood up to check on the food. “Why don’t we dine together, and then I will show you to your room? I’m afraid it’s rather floury, but you’ll have a wonderful view!”

“Ma’am—Mistress Arianna, thank you so much!” The wizard scooped up his cat into his arms and added, “Sitron, we get to stay!”

The happy scene involved a lot of hugging which the cat wholeheartedly reciprocated. Arianna continued to laugh. She had not anticipated to lodge a young wizard and his feline familiar, but she also had not expected to conceive another child after thirteen years; so, who was she to put a cap on the impossible?

Chapter Text

“A large income is the best recipe for happiness I ever heard of.”

Jane Austen.

“Everything,” said Sitron, “is coated with flour.”

“I can see that.”

Mistress Arianna had taken the pair to a flat above the storage house; it seemed some of the storage had made its way up the stairs. The room being situated in the attic meant it had a distinct triangular shape, and the general situation left a lot to be desired. Although Hans was overjoyed by the large window next to the naked mattress – it provided him the loveliest view of the sea.

He placed his suitcase, messenger bag, and broom by a dusty table. This was his home now. Barebone though it was, he was sure that he could infuse homeliness into the atmosphere that would be pleasanter to his senses. In retrospect, Hans was exceedingly glad he was not tempted by any trinkets he’d seen while running around the city.

“How much do you reckon it will cost to install a telephone?” he asked, sitting down on the mattress. It was firm with disuse and flour rose into a white cloud around him that made him cough.

Sitron jumped onto the metal bedframe and balanced himself to be still. “A telephone?”

“We will need it for work.”

“Has Mistress Arianna allowed to stay here for the year, or is this arrangement for a single night?”

“…That’s a good question.” Hans folded his arms. “We will delve into the details tomorrow with Madam. For now, we should focus on cleaning the room.” He smirked and reached out to pet his cat. “With the amount of flour reside here, I bet you will become snow white by morn!”

Sitron crinkled his nose. “I like my little boots just fine,” he said haughtily. Being a calico, Sitron was a bit unusual for a wizard’s familiar – most of his peers had black cats.

Hans laughed and then he grabbed the bucket given to him by Arianna, running outside to the courtyard to fill it. His mother was very fond of cleaning spells and he’d picked up quite a few in his thirteen years. There was one that she always used when he was a very small boy who forgot to take off his shoes after traipsing in the gardens. So, once he was back in his room Hans stuck a mop inside of the bucket and walked back three paces, clapped his hands, and extended them outwards as he commanded the mop to wash the floor.

“Tell me,” said Sitron, “why aren’t you washing the floors the old-fashioned way?”

“I want to optimise! While it washes, I can wipe the cupboards and beat the mattress clean.”

The mop, glowing faintly, hopped out of the bucket and shakily started to wipe the flour off the floor. Hans gasped, excited that the spell worked on the first attempt. His hands glowed the same pale blue hue as the mop, and he was almost afraid to lower them lest something went wrong.

Once he was sure that the mop will behave, Hans directed his attention to the mattress. Heavy-lifting had always been a task for his sturdier brothers; the young wizard lacked faith in his slender arms to properly drag it outside, but Sitron proved himself a worthy familiar by helping with the task as much as he could while avoiding the spinning mop – did it move more erratically now? Regardless, it was no small feat considering his size!

Miles down the coast, Mr. Westergaard sat on a large, plush armchair in the drawing room and sighed. His wife beside him regarded him with an anxious expression for she knew that he was inclined to a melancholic disposition. The question now was whether it was set on by the absence of their baby or because her husband ran out of blue and silver ink to touch up on the river systems on his maps.

“Do you think Hansel found a place to sleep tonight?” he asked.

The former it is then, thought Mrs. Westergaard as she set her book aside to reach for his hand. “I’m sure he has, my love,” she said. “Hans is clever and possesses a greater sense of self-preservation than a few of his brothers. Do remember that this is his second night away; he will need time to settle down and make himself comfortable before he can write us a missive.”

A sad smile ghosted over her husband’s countenance. He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to her knuckles, and said, “He has taken a copy of your herbology notes, yes?”

“I would not have permitted his flying without them.” She chuckled. “Hans has the capacity to become a decent brewer if he had the patience for it. Still, I hope he will scrape by with what I taught him until he has a permanent trade.” Kristina tightened her grasp over his hand. “Perhaps he will discover interesting urban plants that do not grow here in the countryside! I’d love it if we could find something that’ll cut that witch Gothel’s pride to the bone.” A smirk. “Maybe even her life.”

Erik bit down a grin. Of all the magical fields, herbology was the most competitive. It had surprised him when he learned of it but seeing what a busy bee his wife was he quickly accepted it as truth. There was research to be conducted, cross-breeding to arrange, sprouts to monitor, perfect environments to provide each specimen, etc. Kristina had written an extensive paper on the consequences of abusing mirthleaf, yet all interest in her study had been cast aside by the herbological community when ‘that witch Gothel’ boasted of possessing the Sundrop Flower.

“My dear, you should not wish death upon others,” he said, brushing the pad of his thumb against her white hand.

“Gothel is well past her expiration date,” said Kristina sharply.

Erik stifled a laugh, then rising from his armchair he beckoned his wife to join him on a walk to the village square. “I shall feel much safer with a witch by my side,” he said, all affection.

“Yes, of course,” (sarcasm dripped from the words), “I can imagine the highwaymen tremble with fear and cry for their mothers at the mere thought of a witch who’d spent decades honing her household enchantments.” Kristina wrapped her arm around his. “‘Beware, beware the village of Knight’s Roost! There be a Mrs. Westergaard, witch, who will curse troublemakers into washing her dishes for eternity!’”

“A terrible fate,” he said. “Our sons can attest to that.”

Snickering, Kristina leaned against her husband and the shut the door behind them. The moon, half-shrouded by gloomy clouds, lit the way for them to leisurely stroll down the gravelly path and the cobbled street ribboning to the square. Good humour was their conversation, blooming flowers and quaint painted signs were their world. Husband and wife spoke in hushed tones, perfectly unaware that in a city north of their beloved village a spell had gone wrong, and their youngest son and his cat found themselves battling a mop.  

***

It was a fine crisp morning, one that made Hans smile despite the bruises on his arms. The mop had been a fearsome foe, and Sitron did very little to help beside screaming, “Thirteen years! Thirteen years you’ve been a witch’s son and you cannot restrain a mop!”

He did – eventually – disenchant the wretched thing, and then spent the better half the night cleaning the room the mundane way. The room was fresher, cleaner, and Sitron did not fear for his dark points. Hans had scrubbed the floors, unpacked his suitcase, stored away his belongings, and prayed to the heavens that Mistress Arianna will not be a harsh landlady.

“What if she tells us to leave?” asked Sitron. He scrunched his nose. “The scent is too strong, my friend.”

“It will fade as we go about the day,” retorted Hans, dabbing lemon oil behind his ears as was custom in his village. “I’ve thinned it with gin before we left home – that may be what you’re smelling. And to answer your question: I rather like Madam Arianna; and she seemed adamant that we stay. How do I look?”

“Perfect!” Sitron jumped to the floor. “To the bakery then? To investigate?”

“To kindly inquire,” he corrected.

Bread was already baking in wide ovens. The warm smells of cinnamon and nutmeg embraced the wizard upon entry, and he bowed in greeting to Mistress Arianna and her husband, who lifted trays of dough so smoothly with a wooden paddle that Sitron was left impressed.

“Good morning,” said Hans, throwing himself to his landlady’s aid by picking up a tray of ready loaves.

“Morning!” she said with a smile. “Have you slept well? There was some ruckus down the street, I think. Hopefully, it did not disturb you too much?”

Hans paused, then said, “No, not at all! Sitron and I were so engrossed in our cleaning that we paid no mind to anything beyond our walls.”

While they carried goods to the shop front, Sitron watched Mr. Frederic simultaneously pick up two trays of dough and spin them before placing them on the worktable. This impressed him even more, and the cat quietly awed at the big baker. Here’s a man who’d fit in well at the village, he thought.

“Delivery services?” exclaimed Mistress Arianna down the hall.

“Yes! I’m not very good at anything in particular in magic – save perhaps brewing potions – but I’ve always excelled in flying!” explained Hans, sliding sweet breads into the shelves behind the till. “It is similar to horse-riding actually.”

“I like this idea!” Mistress Arianna placed hands on her hips. “Delivering packages by air will save everyone time! And you’ve already headquarters of a sort here.”

“I can use this place? Really?”

“Of course! Do you have everything you need to get started?”

“There is a want for a telephone,” he said, bringing in another tray. “My mother has one installed at her shop so customers can ring for her.”

“But they are expensive,” said Mistress Arianna disapprovingly. “Don’t waste your money when we have one already that you can use. You won’t have many customers at first since you’re new, which is why I suggest you mind the bakery for me when I can’t.” She gestured at her big belly. “I’m expecting, and my daughter is often out and about; you’d be a great help.”

“Has your daughter returned home?” Hans slowed. “I’ve yet to introduce myself to her. Oh! How much will the rent be, Mistress Arianna?”

“She went to school straight from her friend’s place.” Arms folded, she sighed. “This is what I’m talking about: your presence at the shop front will be much appreciated. And,” she winked, “you will not have to pay rent for the room or the phone if you mind the till for me; breakfasts will be on the house, too.”

The offer cleared away all anxieties that plagued Hans last night, and the young wizard’s countenance lit up like a charming spell. “You’re too kind, Madam! I promise I’ll work very, very hard!”

“Just Arianna, dear.”

Hans ignored that little remark, instead running to fetch another tray to the shop front. Arianna laughed at the enthusiasm of her tenant and lifted a tray of cinnamon rolls, leaving her husband alone with the calico cat. Sitron had grown ever more interested in the baking process, his head peeking from the counter, and he watched Frederic intently; however, when the man winked humorously the cat felt a jolt shoot down his spine, and he lowered himself like a hungry child caught red-handed with a jar of biscuits.

The day at the bakery was busy, busier than Mrs. Westergaard’s ever got. Hans chatted with customers and Mistress Arianna, who showed him how to use the cash register. There was a bakery back in the village, though Hans had never worked there as it was family-owned, and his mother had no use of a cash register. Despite his lack of experience, the wizard was gregarious by nature and soon his instructor noticed how well he interacted with the patrons.

By noon, the flow of patrons had slowed. Seeing as it was the boy’s first time living alone in a big city, Arianna let him have the rest of the day off so he could look around and buy groceries. “Sitron needs cat food,” she said when he resisted, “and you should stock up on basic necessities.”

“Will you be alright?”

“’Course! My husband will be right here should I need help.” She clapped his back. “Go, hurry, before it darkens.”

Hans thanked the woman and called for Sitron. With the latter perched on his shoulder, the young wizard went outside where he promptly ran across the street, barely avoiding a roadside accident for the second consecutive day.

“This is not Knight’s Roost!” scolded Sitron, claws digging into the boy’s shirt out of fright. “You can’t be dashing across a highway expecting to live!”

“That was not a highway!” Hans walked hurriedly down the street, wanting to get away from the scene. “Anyway, I’ve made a list for the shops so we don’t spend needlessly.”

“Oh? Can I have a look at this list?”

Hans nodded, and reached for his pocket when three boys walked towards them. Handsomely dressed in jeans, printed shirts, and bright jackets, the strangers laughed about some joke that escaped him. Seeing them pass him by, Hans slowed his step to better size up his outfit: a butter yellow hand-me-down shirt, trousers his mother had sewn from an old dress, and a waistcoat she had made from fabrics she’d fished out from the attic.

Mr. and Mrs. Westergaard were not penny-pinchers – far from it – but they were more than familiar with the speed with which children grow. Their eldest sons, who no longer threaten their wardrobe by growing tall like stormgrass every summer, possessed outfits befitting gentlemen. Juniors, however, were given hand-me-downs upon hand-me-downs unless it was absolutely imperative for them to receive entirely new clothes.

I wish I had something newer, thought Hans. A new waistcoat at least. Although no one my age seems to wear them here.

“Hans?” Sitron lowered his head underneath his friend’s chin, pushing up his lowered head. “The shopping list?”

“Ah! Yes, that!” He snapped out of his wistful yearnings and pulled out a scrap of paper. “I’ve approximated our budget for today while you slept.”

“Why approximate?”

“Prices will be different than they are at Knight’s Roost. Let us hope they are inclined in our favour.”

The prices were not inclined in their favour. They were, in fact, actively set out against them. Having visited several shops in a quest for affordable groceries, the duo purchased finished the day with these purchases in their bags: a map of the city, a frying pan, a jar of honey, cereal, oats, butter, eggs, milk, fruits and vegetables, and mincemeat. The most expensive items were a small rug for his bedside – his brother Klaus rattled about investing in one, saying it will be most useful come winter – and a mug with a calico cat painted on the side.

Mistress Arianna had already given him a cup for personal use, but it was love at first sight for Sitron and he refused to leave the shop without it in their cart. “Don’t you want a mug with me on it?” he demanded. Then he looked so stricken when the wizard took one second too long to answer and cried, “Josef has one with ravens, and Valdemar has several with his cats! Hans!”

He made a face, and slowly took the mug off the shelf. “I suppose I’ll be returning the cup to Madam.”

“Because we’ve gotten a better one!” said Sitron, purring like an engine against his face.

It was a struggle to carry two large bags down the street. Sitron tentatively asked him about the budget situation for the prices were much higher than in the village; to this Hans said that they will simply have to live off pancakes for a while.

The friends complained to one another about the outrageous prices when from the corner of his eye Hans saw the most beautiful pair of shoes displayed at the storefront of a boutique. Colonial in style, the shoes were cardinal red with shiny white buckles on top.

“They’re so pretty,” whispered Hans, stretching his neck to admire them whole balancing the groceries.

Sitron jumped down and glanced at the tag. “And expensive.”

“So was your mug.”

“Our mug.”

Hans rolled his eyes. Then his attention was caught by a dingy, smoky car that saw better days came rolling down the street. Inside of it was a gaggle of laughing adolescents, who one could only assume were revelling in being a public nuisance. Hans told Sitron to climb onto his shoulder – in case they had to make a run for it – and scowled when he spotted yesterday’s aggravating boy.  

“Hey!” cried that boy, pointing at Hans. “Seamus, slow the car, would ya?” With that, the ugly vehicle came to a screeching halt in front of the clothes shop. The boy leaned to the side and waved. “Wizard! Won’t you fly today?” He turned to his friends. “See, I told you he has a cat and everything that follows him everywhere and—wait, where are you going? What about me, Wizard?”

Hans went red as a rose. He had no want or need to be a spectacle. Quite contradictory for a boy whose nature revelled in attention, though one must understand the difference between being heralded as the best dancer in Knight’s Roost and being gawked at on the streets as if he was a freakish circus sideshow.

“Don’t be upset,” said Sitron gently. The speed with which Hans walked forced him to drive his nails deeper into the cloth. “He doesn’t know any better.”

“They were laughing!”

“At him. You must have heard the desperate bravado in his voice when you shot off like a bullet. I bet the boy buzzed their ears off about you.”

“I…” The notion was met with a generous portion of flattery, and an equally great sense of disgust. “I should think my father would call that boy a ‘hooligan’!”

“To be fair,” started Sitron, well familiar with the sensibilities of his family, “Papa calls most city boys ‘hooligans’, unless they’ve family in the country or tick off the boxes on his enigmatic respectability checklist. And even that is not always enough! Do you recall what a lecture he gave us when we went to the shops together last summer?”

“Was it when he saw a boy wear tattered jeans?”

“Yes!” Sitron perked up his ears. “That was all he could speak of on the drive home!”

Hans laughed. He remembered well his father’s repulsion to the new trend in fashion, and how he complained of it to his wife the moment they returned home. “How can I forget his long tirade? ‘Cannot they afford to keep their knees warm?’ is what I believe he said.”

Cheeks rosy from laughter, the friends turned at the corner to enter the courtyard and Hans stopped by the well when he heard the door of the house proper open. Mistress Arianna smiled. “Perfect timing, Hans!” she said. “There is a woman who has come to see you – it’s about a delivery.”

“A delivery!” Hans shared an excited look with Sitron. “We will be there in two ticks, Ma’am!”

His very first patroness was a handsome red-haired woman. In her prim white trench coat and crimson lipstick, she appeared to him like a fashion magazine come to life. She smiled kindly at Hans as he slid into bakery front with a broom in hand and a calico cat perched on his shoulder.

“She’s a regular here, Hans,” said Mistress Arianna, “and she needs to have this delivered to a suburban address.”

“What a charming young man,” said the woman, placing a hand on a bird cage covered by yellow cloth. “I must have this delivered today. It is my nephew’s birthday and…”

As the woman provided details to Hans, Sitron gingerly pounced onto the counter and approached the cage. There was a toy inside: a plush cat that was the very image of himself. “It’s me,” he said softly, cocking his to the side in admiration.

“It is quire far from here,” she said.

“No worries, Miss! I shall fly straight from here; it ought to cut all the unnecessary twists and turns of foot landed travel.”

“How much it will cost?”

“…I haven’t considered that yet,” he answered honestly.

The woman regarded him carefully. A less honourable person would’ve seized the opportunity to skim on paying the full price, but this customer was a neighbour of Arianna’s and had seen the boy run around the area as he tidied his new home. She was also privy to the fearsome mop incident, and knew right away that she liked the newest addition to the neighbourhood. Smiling she dropped into his open palm a hefty sum for money and asked whether it was enough.

Hans stared at the promise of not surviving on pancakes alone for the next fortnight. Then he blinked, taking in the money, and thanked his patroness heartily. He gestured to Sitron to hop onto his shoulder, thanking the woman once again and promising to have the package delivered by evening.

Arianna accompanied him outside, eager to see him fly. She’d never seen a wizard before in her life, so it was with a trembling heart that she observed her tenant while wondering how will he take off the ground. The first and only time she’d seen him in action, he nearly gave her a heart attack by dropping of the ledge.

She watched with a child’s enthusiasm while Hans (thankfully) lifted off the ground by what she assumed were magical means. Her hands shadowed her face as she watched the boy soar, and nearby that aggravating boy saw the shrinking silhouette and pedalled like his life depended upon it till he stood beside the baker.

“God, that’s so cool!” he exclaimed.

“I’d like to touch the clouds too,” sighed Arianna in awe.

“Mrs.!” He turned to her. “Do you know him?”

Arianna started in surprise. “Flynn!” she greeted him warmly. “How are you?”

“I’m doing well, Mrs. But about that boy—” he pointed upwards. “Do you know him? Is he Rapunzel’s friend?”

“Oh, they haven’t met each other yet,” she said. “Rapunzel went to sleep over at Cassandra’s house yesterday, which was when I met Hans. I like him already – he’s such a nice boy.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“With us! Up in the spare room above storage – you know the place.”

Flynn brightened at the news. To think that a real wizard lived in his borough! He’d have to drop by this evening when he returned from wherever he flew, and he was excited to speak with him. Despite the cold reception he’d received earlier, Flynn was determined to befriend this wizard named Hans whether he liked it or not. 

Chapter Text

“Climb ye higher and higher and higher
Till you’re far away and breathing cleaner air
Oh, my brother, my brother, my brother
Who have you become in the wake of all that’s happened here?”

The Crane Wives.

Up, up, up they went! The city somehow appeared to be both larger and smaller than when they were on the ground. Hans soared as high as he could, touching the clouds with the tips of his fingers, only stopping at Sitron’s, “I believe we’ve ascended high enough, my friend.”

I’ve no desire to encounter officers,” said the wizard, reaching for the map neatly tucked in his pocket. “Not when we’ve such an important task: our first delivery!”

“Well, the package is to be delivered to a birthday boy.” Sitron pressed his head against Hans’ belly. “Not the angels.”

Stretching his legs outwards in a V-shape, the wizard plummeted several downwards before gathering his legs to smoothen his flight. “Better?” he demanded, smiling at the answering nod. The view was still beautiful at this height. Witches and wizards dubbed it the ‘Witch’s Field’, and Hans thanked whatever toss of genetic dice granted him the ability to fly.

“I like this city!” he proclaimed, grinning.

“We should not get too comfortable,” cautioned his friend. “We’ve a single customer in our books so far, and you cannot stay here unless you practice your witchcraft.”

“We’ve been here for less than a sennight; we will be fine.” He scratched the cat’s head. “And if the worst comes to worst, I can brew potions for sale. Mother taught me elixirs that cool fevers; every toddler’s mama will want it, I’m sure.”

Conversation came easily to them – they spoke of everything with light hearts, unbothered by eavesdroppers. Once their chat took to discussing the various arts of witchcraft, the friends were joined by a flock of wild geese heading in the same direction as them. Hans greeted them with all the politeness owed to divine communicators such as them and was startled by their sudden squawking.

“Have I said something wrong?”

Sitron stood in attention. “No,” he reassured his friend. “They’re warning us: strong winds incoming. They say they’ll be pushed upwards by it.”

Before Hans could react to the warning, the geese – true to their words – were thrown into a toss by the aforementioned winds. Its strength slammed into Hans as well; the study broom tries its best to them steady – its mistress had ordered it to keep her son safe – but the current was too powerful. The young wizard lost his seating, spun in a circle around the handle which he clutched so tightly that his knuckles went lily-white.

Sitron, whose claws were buried deep in Hans’ back, screamed like a banshee as the wizard pulled himself back onto the broom. Then the latter placed a reassuring hand on his friend, giving him a comforting squeeze. “We’re alive!” he said, panting hard. “We’re alive and safe and—where’s the package?”

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a glint of metal and fluttering fabrics falling to the forest like a shooting star.

They shot off like a bullet. It was Hans’ first day (first!!!) and already things have gone wrong. A moment of happiness burst through the clouds when he caught the package, then the clouds massed stronger than ever as they hurtled into a tangle of sharp, jagged branches.

A furious crow flapped in front of them, cawing and crying. Hans – precariously situated on the treetop – searched for his cat in hopes of a translation. Some wizards spoke to all animals. He was no such wizard. For a moment he considered grabbing the bird to calm it down (or at the very least to stop it from pecking at his eyes), but then he saw a nest with three eggs a hairbreadth away from his elbow.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” At the same time, Sitron clambered up the tree trunk and into his waistcoat. “We’ll leave now! Right this instant, I promise!”

The instant took a bit longer than an instant. In Hans’ defence, it was difficult to leave the tree what with his clothes snagged onto splinters and Sitron running up and down his body. And when they had fulfilled the promise, the mother bird chased them for good measure, hurling insults that made the cat blush with shame.

“It was an accident!” shouted Hans, flailing his hand to keep the sharp beaks from himself. “I don't want your eggs so you can stop accusing me of being a thief, thank you very much!”

The geese did warn us of the wind,” murmured Sitron. “You should’ve reacted quicker.”

“You should’ve translated faster.” He sighed in relief when the crow finally let them be. Above them, the agreeable flock of geese soared high like Icarus. “They’re natural-born flyers; I’m still learning. Mother never let me go on the broom when the wind raged, so no wonder I don’t know how to manage them like my brothers.”

“You need more weight on you,” remarked the cat. “Skinny child that you are, it’s a miracle you haven’t been taken by storms. How will you we find you then? And—Hans! Hans! The toy! It’s vanished!”

“What?!”

The little latch of the bird cage swung in the breeze, and inside lay only a small birthday card. Horror seized them both, and they made a sharp turn back to the forest, braving the screaming crows awaiting them with vengeance. Hans tries his best at pushing past then, even swinging the cage in the air as a makeshift melee weapon once the crows attacked the head of his broom.

Victory favoured the crows. Hans flew from the woods, then watched the black birds descend triumphantly into the thick woods. “Oh, whatever shall we do?” he complained. “They’re a stubborn lot, and vicious.” He patted the broom apologetically.

“Pompous, you mean,” said Sitron. “You are a wizard! They owe you respect as prospective familiars.”

“And put you out of a job?” Hans chuckled. “No, they saw a calico cat and knew that the office was taken.”

“Mama’s familiars are birds though.”

“How are they to know that? And Mama’s familiars are eagles, not crows.” He shook his head. “We’re losing focus!”

Sitron considered their situation, then said, “We must wait till sunset. Once its dark, we can sneak into the forest and retrieve the toy without facing those hooligans.”

“But we don’t have till the sun sets, my dearest.” Hans’ countenance was that of anxiety, which significantly worsened upon pulling out his pocket watch. “I must deliver this within a half hour.”

“Have you any better plans?”

“Well…not really.” Hans sighed, his mind racing with solutions. He could transfigure another object into the shape of the toy, but his transfigurations lasted two hours at most and he’d have to find something to transfigure in the first place. There were enchantments and potions which affected the memory, though he was uncomfortable with both solutions. Surely there must be something he could do that did not involve bewitching a whole family till moonrise. And—

Sitron. There was Sitron. Quite like how dawn always succeeded the darkest nights, so did Hans’ spirits rise from the dispirited puddle of doubt in his chest. “Sitron,” he said slowly, “the hour has come to pay for that mug.”

“What…what do you mean by that?”

Hans gestured at the cage. Sitron blanched.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Hans, I love you and—”

“And so you will be the best actor in the world!” He stroked his head pleadingly. “Sitron, please. This is our first delivery and I cannot return to the bakery a failure. What will Mama think of me once she learns of this?”

The cat bit his lip. He loved his friend dearly – loved him more than anything in the world – and would give his heart’s blood to make him happy. But…pretending to be a toy for God knew how many hours? Glancing up, Sitron saw pure hope in the boy’s face. Hope along with a willingness to back down should he refuse the plea.

He bowed his head. Then he stepped into the cage, closing the latch behind him. “Please hurry.”

“I will! Oh, thank you so much! Where would I be without you? My Sitron!” he pronounced proudly, flying towards the address. “My dearest, kindest, most obliging Sitron; I’ve chosen so well the day I first met your litter!”

The praise was a balm to the feline soul, especially when they rang the doorbell and a toddler ran out to greet them. Sitron was well acquainted with children – there were plenty of babies in the village – though those little ones knew he was a living cat, not a toy to be held by the tail.

Hans gasped when the boy swung his friend around, then he was chastised by the boy’s mother for the lateness. “I apologize, Ma’am,” he said, fishing for the notebook in his pocket. “Um, could you please sign here?”

With the signature ready and Sitron in the house, he bowed politely to the woman and jumped onto his broom to get his friend out as soon as he could. That was the least he owed him.

***

Sitron was not afraid of dogs.

No sir, he was not afraid! Having grown up in a household with horses, rabbits, ravens, pigeons, sparrows, two excessively proud eagles, and a pack of dogs desensitized him to most creatures on the planet. Never mind that the Westergaard hounds were taught to not harass him for they knew that Hans had the blackest temper when seriously angered, and Sitron’s hurt would definitely trigger it.

Young wizards were interesting creatures. Magic coursed their veins and sometimes fled their bodies in outbursts of emotions. The Westergaard hounds had their fill of it a few months after Sitron’s arrival. No one liked being a toad, even for a few hours; he was sure not even toads liked being toads.

The old dog sleeping in this blasted living room was not privy to this knowledge.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Sitron prayed for Hans’ scavenging to be swift as the wind. The birthday had thankfully lost interest in him, too busy he was playing the with the birds, but that hound agitated him to no end. Who knew what shall happen once it awoke from its slumber? He will sniff the air and learn at once that Sitron was a real cat, not some stupid toy.

They laid serenely in the drawing room, a dog and definitely-not-a-toy cat. Alone. The bot had run off to wash up for the evening. They were alone. It was the perfect chance for a big dog to chew on a small cat. Not for a second did Sitron stop watching the canine fellow, despite the very act filling him with fear.

He trembled. His heart beat like a judge’s mallet as the dog rose in lazy inquisitiveness and approached him. He liked him and Sitron swore his heart would burst right there. Death had come. This was it. No more sunrises, no more of Mama’s marmalades or sniffing Papa’s antique books, no more touching the heavens with Hans. There was not even an opportunity to drink from that amazing mug they’d bought earlier!

Life flashed before Sitron. Then, realizing a warm presence behind him, he carefully opened his eyes and saw that he was protectively held by the dog. I’m alive, he thought in awe. I’m alive.

***

Sunlight barely penetrated through the thick leaves of the trees, leaving the forest bottom as gloomy as he’d expected. Hans ran like a madman, dropping onto his knees whenever he thought he saw the toy hiding in the shrubbery. He was half-tempted to cast a summoning spell; but distant avian cries forced him to reconsider. If his destiny was indeed to be pecked to death by a murder of crows then he’d rather prefer to postpone it till after he had freed dear Sitron.

Wandering in circles eventually revealed to him a grim cabin in a clearing. He narrows his eyes at the unwonted edifice and saw perched behind the dark windows the toy. Hans gasped, legs stumbling to reach the gift and he released a breath he had no idea he held.  

With poor Sitron weighing heavily on his mind, Hans rushed to the door of the house and cried if anyone was there. No response. He made bold to peek inside and saw that it was filled with paints, brushes, canvases, and anatomical books alongside a bouquet of miscellaneous items such individuals were inclined to possess. For example, nine cups of tea – a quarter of them cold and stale – littered the little table by the couch. This must be an artist’s abode, he thought. But where was this artist?

“Is anyone home?” repeated Hans louder. “Hello?”

“Up here!” said another voice. “I’m busy; you’ll have to come here.”

‘Here’ the wizard realised was the rooftop. It seemed sturdy enough, though its dampness worried him. Hans climbed it carefully lest he falls, which he nearly did when upon reaching the top he was greeted by that rude crow-mother. Yes, he had crashed into her tree. That was on him. But he had apologized! It was not like the eggs had been cracked, nor had he ever expressed a desire to steal them.

“What do you want?”

Hans lifted his attention from the angry bird to a young man sitting higher up the roof. Crows hopped around him, and it seemed he was sketching them. The fellow was tall. That much was obvious even as he sat with a slouch that’d be the envy of gargoyles. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in black. Though he was not what most folks would consider handsome, Hans instantly believed him to have a noble air to him that elevated his stern appearance. Most striking of all was a black patch which covered his left eye.

“Hey,” said the artist. “Are you just going to gawk?”

Hans blinked and frowned. “I’m not gawking,” he said, indignant. Then he remembered himself (and Sitron) and stifled the insulted feelings. “There is a plush cat on your windowsill downstairs, sir. I lost it earlier and need it back. Urgently.”

“I found it in the woods.”

“That would be because I dropped it. May I please have it back?”

“Hold on,” said the young man. “I’ve a great angle here.”

The young artist was called Murphy Stabbington. He’d lived in the woods for two years now and had very little company besides the local wildlife. His darling crows had caused quite a ruckus that morn; calming them down took a good long while, not to mention how he waited for them to come model for him on the rooftop. They were a friendly bunch, the crows. Charming as toddlers and angrier than hags, they were as fond of Murphy as they were of sunflower seeds and cawed loudly around him, demanding to be drawn next.

Hans, who’d never been terribly apt with birds, slid down the ladder and twiddled his thumbs in anticipation. It was strange. First, he had not expected to find a human soul in the woods. Second, why was this man in the woods? The city to him seemed like a better environment for a creative soul. Although it’d only been a few days since he settled in Corona City, the young wizard liked it exceedingly. During the day it was bright and cheery, at night it glittered as brightly as any village sky. Artists would find it a fitting home, I think.

While he contemplated, said artist had finished his sketched and closed the notepad shut. Murphy praised the birds for their patience and climbed down the ladder, where he started at the sight of the boy. Perhaps if he had looked at him earlier his reaction would’ve been more mundane, but one must forgive this young man. After all, forests do not typically attract prim boys. Murphy certainly cannot recall having any visitors who weren’t the rough-and-tumble sort of lads. People whom the Westergaards would call hooligans.

By all estimations, Hans was a very pretty boy. His wind-blown hair was a true auburn, and the rouge against his ivory skin gave him a healthy appearance. The manner in which he held himself was gentlemanly, complimenting the older style of clothes he wore that gave him a comfortable, cosy air of the old country. It was all very new to an urbanite-turned-hermit artist such as Murphy. Hans glanced at him with those big green eyes of his, fingers intertwined, and for a moment he was a picture come to life.

“Sir,” he said, “the toy please? My cat is being held hostage in its place and I need it to rescue him.”

Well. That was one way to start an acquaintanceship. Murphy blinked and gave him a nod. “Should’ve said so in the first place.” He grabbed the plushie and gave it to the boy. “Here.”

“Thank you—Ah! It’s ripped!”

The little plushie’s head was halfway torn at the seams, almost as if the executioner’s axe was too dull for a clean beheading. Hans held it in his hand, inspecting the damage, and Murphy peered at it closer. “That’d be the crows’ doing,” said he softly. “They’ve been kicking up a fuss about it the whole morn.”

“What am I going to do?” wondered Hans aloud, anxiety lacing his voice. “I would not have minded if this belonged to me, but it doesn’t! I cannot deliver damaged goods.”

Artists generally were not inclined to keep their spaces tidy, and Murphy had escaped outside scrutiny by the virtue of his lifestyle. However, being in the presence of a clean, tidy, handsome boy amplified the little voice in the back of his head that begged for the floors to be mopped.

“Hey,” he said to the worried wizard. “What if I sew it up for you?”

Hans glanced at him. “Really?” He twisted his mouth to the side. “What’s the catch?”

Murphy smiled. The boy was clever.

“It’s nothing bad,” he said. “Come in. Let me get the needle an’ thread.”

***

Scrubbing the floors was a task for maids and, as the evening revealed, young wizards in want of sewing services. Hans rolled up his trousers above the knee and sleeves to the elbows as he went about the chore. Though his mother was fond of casting cleaning spells to save herself the trouble, she insisted on teaching her sons how to do these tasks by hand; and Hans was not in the mood to fight another mop.

Murphy sat on the porch. The supplies from the house were all moved to the front and there he sewed up the plushie. Hans quickly realised that this fellow was silent by nature. More than a quarter of an hour had passed before the artist inquired after him:

“Are you new to the city?”

“I am,” said Hans, wetting the bristles of the brush. “I live by myself with my cat.”

“What’s your age?”

“Thirteen.”

“Alone since you’re thirteen?” Murphy leaned in from the window. “You’re one of us then.”

Hans wiped the sweat off his brow. “Who, pray tell, is ‘us’?”

“Starving artists, raving poets,” he paused, “magical delivery boys.”

Hans smirked. Now that was a comparison! “Can I ask you a question?” he asked, eager to forget the hardness of the floor against his knees with jolly chats.

“Hm?”

“What’re you doing in the forest? I’ve a brother who paints and he says metropolises are a goldmine of inspiration.”

“That’s cause he’s a village boy,” said Murphy, pulling the needle high in the air. “Cities ’re new to him.”

“And you?”

“Bred and born in alleyways.”

The conversation died away for a while. As the orange sun set, the cool winds and the pale shadow of the moon swept through the sky and chilled Hans’ bare wet hands. He breathed onto them. 

Murphy meanwhile was uncomfortably aware of the quiet. It was odd. Silence never had the power to discomfort him, yet now he wondered whether he should talk to the boy or not. He was busy scrubbing the floors of the cottage. Perhaps he ought to set the kettle. The chill was bad enough for him, and he was wholly dry.

“So,” he began again, wishing he had his brother’s fluency, “how do like it? The city, I mean.”

“It’s beautiful!” said Hans with cheer. “I’ve dreamt of living in a city with a grand clocktower since I was small, and the seaside reminds me of home. My village is leagues down the shore. Although,” his voice lowered a bit, and he started to scrub more aggressively, “there is a boy that does not sit with me well.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know his name,” added Hans quickly. “Properly acquainted we are not, but that does not stop him from badgering me. He’s fascinated by my broom, I think; his eyes kept straying to it in our few interactions.”

As the wizard continued to describe this bothersome boy, Murphy scrunched his nose as he connected the attributes to a very specific person. Hermit though he was, he had a brother in the city who pinned an ad searching for a dormmate to cut rent costs. They should not have been surprised at the kind of people responded.

“Say,” he said when Hans paused, “what does this boy look like?”

The wizard sat back on his haunches. “He’s a smidge taller than me,” he said. “His hair is brown and he keeps it tied up in a ponytail; his eyes are a lighter shade of brown. Each time I saw him, he wore a bandana around his neck.”

“…Did you,” Murphy took a deep breath, “did you ever see him hanging around a fellow who looks like me?”

The admittedly strange inquiry received a wide-eyed stare. Hans set the brush to the side and rose from the floor, stretching his limbs. “You must give me a moment, sir, for I’ve seen many faces this week.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’,” said Murphy. “I’m only a few years older than you.”

“I think I did see someone like you, sir,” said Hans, choosing to ignore the remark. “He was driving a car from which that boy yelled at me.”

Murphy nodded. “I know who you’re talking about.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. The boy’s name is Flynn Rider.”

“And your doppler?”

“That would be my brother Seamus,” said Murphy. “He uh, he shares a little flat with Rider.”

Hans stared at him blankly. “But that boy can’t be much older than I am. Why is he alone?”

“Well, why’re you alone?”

“I told you that I’m a wizard, sir,” said he crossly. “It’s tradition for us to live by ourselves for a year when we turn thirteen. After twelvemonths I shall be expected home by my parents.”

The genuine irritation in the young voice startled Murphy. A thought then passed through the artist’s mind: he liked this strange little wizard, all the pride and archaisms included. He apologized for the offence and waved the toy. “Stitched it up,” he said kindly.

Whatever shadow dissented upon the boy’s pale face was blown away. Hans flashed a wide smile, then like a gloomy storm he cast his gaze down at the wet floor. “I…I can cast a spell on the brush to finish the job,” he said, “but I cannot guarantee that it will not turn against you.”

Murphy was taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

“The deal! You fixed the doll and I in turn must complete the washing.”

“Don’t be silly.” Murphy jumped inside the house via the window and grabbed Hans by the shoulder before the boy could bewitch the bucket or whatever it was that he intended to do. “Your poor cat must be dying to stretch its—”

“His.”

“—His legs and you’ve already cleaned more than half.” He placed the toy inside the smaller, paler hand. “Go help him. And if you’re so keen on repaying me then come back here again.”

“To finish washing the floors?”

“No!” Murphy stifled a laugh. “I’d like to draw you.”

Hans stared at him. “You want to draw me?”

“I do.”

Vanity bloomed within the boy like a daisy at dawn. “I’ll come!” said he enthusiastically. Although his parents have commissioned portraits of their sons, never in his life had Hans been asked to model for an artist. His brother did not count!

Murphy clapped his back. “Good. Now, go fetch the cat.”

“Thank you again for stitching up the toy!” Hans quickly bowed in respect, then seized the broom and darted into the night sky.

Leaning against the threshold of his home, Murphy whistled into the chill air and smacked the palms of his hands. Better sketch him while it’s fresh in the mind, he thought and stepped into the cabin.

A hundred metres up in the sky, Hans urged the broom to make haste lest poor Sitron be tormented any more than necessary. It was a quick flight to reach the house; the wizard made sure to land far enough to not alert the celebrating family inside the house. There was a grey automobile parked at the front and the wizard crouched behind it as he tried to come up with a way to free his friend.

However, all the mental agony was in vain as the door was soon opened by the birthday boy. Hans felt his hackles up, but then the boy rushed off into the glowing drawing room. A most lethargic dog slowly emerged from the house with Sitron firmly held in its mouth. It gently released him, and the cat dashed toward his best friend. “Oh, thank heavens you’ve finally come,” he exclaimed in relief.

Hans held him tightly, scratching affectionately behind his ear. “I’m so sorry for taking this long.”

“Sir Hound protected me while you were gone,” said the cat, pointing with his dark little paw.

Hans lifted his head to see his friend’s guardian. The dog was old. Experience told him that at that age most hounds sleep, eat, and go for the briskest of walks. He hoped they were not a nuisance.

Sitron perched on his shoulder and interpreted the unspoken language of animals to his friend “He says to give him the toy. He’ll bring it to his family.”

As if to confirm, the dog solidly tapped the ground with his tail.

Hans approached the elder – being thirteen himself, it was very likely that the dog was indeed his senior in human as well as physical years – and bowed to him. Then he extended forward the plush toy with both hands, which the dog gripped in his mouth before slowly walking back home and closing the door with his hind legs.

“How are you feeling?” asked Hans.

“I’m hungry,” said the cat, yawning.

“I am as well.” Hans swung a leg over the handle. “What shall we have for supper?”

Sitron twitched an ear as they ascended. “I want a charlotte cake.”

“I can make us pancakes.”

“Can we have bacon, too?”

“Sure!”

Hans was in exceptionally high spirits. Of course, there were multiple mishaps to the day such as being branded a thief by the crows and losing the package and forcing his cat to pretend to be a toy until he found it; but, overall, he considered today to be a success.

On top of that, he formed a new acquaintance in the form of Murphy Stabbington. What a name! What a man! Quiet though he was, the wizard found himself partial to the artist. And the giddy joy of being asked to model hadn’t vanished yet. Hans wondered whether he could request him to perhaps elevate his clothing. He told this idea to his friend, who innocently asked if Mr. Stabbington was proper.

“Proper?”

“You know.” Sitron flailed his paw as the words escaped him. “Remember when Papa took us to the big art museum in Konigsburg? There were pictures of naked people everywhere.”

“Those were Greek gods, Sitron,” said Hans, not liking the direction this conversation was heading.

“Naked Greek gods!” The cat raised his large eyes upward to the wizard. “Those painters needed models from which to gather reference.”

Hans grew red as a rose when he caught onto the hint. “Sitron!” he scolded. “Don’t be daft! I’m confident that Murphy’s as proper as any man of Knight’s Roost!”

“I’d be glad to meet him,” said the cat. “Were the crows polite to you?”

Seeing a gloom manifest around his friend answered the inquiry better than actual words could. Sitron sighed, shook his head, and switched to merrier topics like the guests at the birthday party. He had an ample time to observe them seeing that he could not blink or breathe too much, and earnest interest on Hans’ part fuelled his own enthusiasm as he shared the experience with apt exaggerations here and there.

Chapter Text

“Light, so low upon earth,
You send a flash to the sun.
Here is the golden close of love,
All my wooing is done.

Oh, all the woods and the meadows,
Woods, where we hid from the wet,
Stiles where we stayed to be kind,
Meadows in which we met!

Light, so low in the vale
You flash and lighten afar,
For this is the golden morning of love,
And you are his morning star.”

Tennyson.

Neither Hans nor Sitron had expected to be assaulted by that boy – Flynn Rider apparently – upon their return home. No sooner had the former set his foot on the grass than this Flynn sprang out from the bakery door with an impish grin on his face. More startling yet was a girl standing beside him. Green-eyed like himself, her fair skin was offset by the purple-pink dress falling to her knees and she graced him with an expression of kind curiosity.

Hans started at the sight of her bare feet. Was she walking around the bakery without shoes?

Though her feet were nothing compared to her hair. If Mr. Westergaard believed ripped jeans to be the height of hooliganism, the proper country gentleman would need to sit after seeing her head. ‘Bizarre’ was one adjective to describe it: half her hair was the gold of the richest kings, and the other was brown.

“Shall we hover around the roof till they leave?” whispered Sitron, staring warily at the children.

“I think if we do that then they will never leave,” murmured the wizard.

“Ah, Hans!” Madam Arianna climbed up the steps, hand pressed firmly against her round belly. “I see you’ve met my daughter!”

The magical pair instantly transformed into a gentleman and cat who knew their manners and bowed to the girl. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Hans, smiling as he recalled every rule of etiquette. “My name is Johannes Westergaard, though everyone calls me Hans.”

A blush crept up the girl’s neck. Hans wondered what could have caused that, not entertaining the possibility that the countryside ways of bowing and formal language were the stuff of dreams to urban girls. “I’m Rapunzel,” she said brightly. “What’s your cat’s name?”

“Sitron!” And the cat purred happily that he was paid his due.

Arianna asked, “How was your first delivery?”

“Exhilarating!” Hans laughed at the exasperated look his cat shot him and scratched the top of his head. “I hope my long absence did not inconvenience you, Ma’am.”

“Ma’am!” Flynn Rider threw his head back in good humour, though Hans’ own died quicker than wind, and flung an arm over the latter’s shoulders. “Man, you’re funny!”

“What’s so funny about manners?”

Overwhelmed by the noise, Sitron licked his friend on the cheek and excused himself to their home. He pounced gracefully to the ground and with quick, small steps ran up the stairs. The dark room was a blessing to his frayed nerves; after a too long day of being an actor worthy of Hamlet’s soliloquies, the cat felt he deserved a nice long nap followed perhaps by a bowl of warm milk.

Hans watched his cat retire, but before he could join him the young miss grabbed his arm and pulled him into the house. Miss Rapunzel insisted he dine with them, and frankly everything happened too suddenly for him to process. Within a minute he was awkwardly seated between Rapunzel and Flynn inside a comfortable kitchen. The wallpapers were yellow and coral; wooden utensils hung above the stove; glass jars filled with sugar, honey, cinnamon, and nutmeg lined the windowsill; a white table tablecloth and beige pillows softened the dining area.

The master of the house – that stern baker who had won Sitron’s admiration – sat opposite Hans. At his feet prowled a sleek white cat that slinked out into the corridor upon feeling the wizard’s stare. Madam Arianna placed a bowl of water by the door for it, and then she served the family with beef stew.

Supping with the family (and Flynn Rider) arose mixed emotions in the wizard. Madam Arianna and her husband had already agreed to house and provide him with breakfast; to have supper with them felt almost intrusive. But, thought Hans, it’d be ruder still to reject their invitation. So, he quietly brought the spoon to his mouth and took a first sip of the stew. It awoke a hunger in him, and soon he fell like a dog on the tender meat and buttered bread.

His hunger appeared mollified, Rapunzel set aside her bread roll to ask her guest, “Where are you from?”

“My family lives south of here,” said Hans primly, “in a village called Knight’s Roost. We’re members of the local gentry.”

“Which means?” Flynn could not stop picking out the boy’s accent. If he could copy it then every fancy shop would tolerate his presence better.

“Oh, we own enough land to support ourselves with its income,” explained Hans. “Some of the folks in Knight’s Roost pay my father rent to use it for living or farming. As for ourselves, we reside in a big house on a hill at the south-western end of the village.”

“That doesn’t sound very wizard-y,” complained Flynn, and Rapunzel’s expression agreed.

“Did you expect wizards to live in ivory towers?” asked Mr. Frederic. The man was yet to form a solid opinion on this boy that his dear wife had welcomed with open arms. When he had observed the child tending to the counter earlier, he had to admit that it seemed the boy gave himself airs. Though he must admit that having a landowner for a father explained the confidence with which he bore himself with customers quadruple his age.

That confidence and pride presented itself in the roll of the eyes and a stifled sigh. “My family would not fit in a tower,” said Hans matter-of-factly. “Ancient bachelor wizards or equally old unwed sorceresses inhabit them, not witches who mothered thirteen sons. We’d drive Mother insane, I bet, had we lived in a tower. And Father would not like it – he’d complain about his knees oftener.”

A stillness swept through the room. A tense serenity. Mr. Frederic’s hand had frozen mid-air and his wife stopped pouring tea. Even Rapunzel and Flynn, whose adventures around the city hardened them to most surprises, stared funnily at their guest.

Hans was perfectly oblivious to their awkwardness. Instead, he said, “Madam, I hope you do not think me abusing your kindness, but could you reserve a portion of the food for Sitron? He has gone napping and I’m sure that he will be hungry as a lion when he awakes.”

“Oh,” Arianna fluttered her eyelids, “definitely. We wouldn’t want your poor kitty hungry.”

“Thirteen?” said Flynn at last, expressing the question on everyone’s minds. “There are thirteen of you?”

“You say that as if that is too many children,” remarked Hans with a raised brow. “It really is not so unusual at Knight’s Roost. The field labourers have big families as well. Granted, they need the extra pair of hands to help work the lands. My father said the trend carried over to us landowners.”

“What shocks me more is that your poor mother delivered all of you,” said Arianna, only now remembering the tea. “Bringing Rapunzel to the world was a Herculean labour if you ask me, and to think your mother did it thirteen times over!”

Hans laughed. “She complains of it often! However, my mother told me she’d brew herself potions to help with the morning sickness and her own mother and all the village women would aid in the labours.”

“Speaking of her, I believe you’ve mentioned that you inherited your magic from her?”

“I did, Madam! My mother hails from a long line of witches and wizards, with a few witchmen appearing on the tree. She herself specialises in herbology and potion-brewing.” Hans sat up straighter, prouder. It was an unconscious movement borne from the great love he held towards his mama. “Should you ever have need of an elixir, feel free to ask me to brew some for you. My mother gave me a copy of her recipe book so I ought to be able to prepare a potion or two.”

“Herbology you say?” Mr. Frederic’s blue gaze shifted from the curious boy to his daughter and then to his wife. It was a subconscious hint on his part that perhaps this witch’s son could explain the mystery surrounding their little girl.

Arianna, who like so many wives picked up on the minute actions of their men, smiled kindly. She poured her tenant another mug of tea and inquired, “Hans, darling, would you like to know why Rapunzel has such unique hair?”

The wizard (whose cheeks filled out with mouthfuls of bread) glanced at the girl. She grinned at him, the dark side of her hair moving gently with the breeze coming in from the open window. His own face was blank, inscrutable. “Um,” he swallowed the food and glimpsed at the girl again, “I…truth be told, Madam, I assumed it was an urban thing. My mother jokes that Knight’s Roost is half a century behind metropolises so…” he trailed off, recalling how his father rallied against ripped jeans.

Arianna laughed. “Oh, goodness, your mother is harsh!” she exclaimed as she clasped her husband’s hand, squeezing it affectionately. “The honest truth is that during my first pregnancy with Rapunzel, I was terribly ill and no prescription could ease the pain. Fred here,” she gestured at her man, “bought a musty old botanical book at a second-hand shop to cheer me up. We flipped through it, found a page talking about a yellow flower that would cure me of my dreadful nausea, and then we searched for it all over the city. Eventually we found it— where did we find it again, love?”

“At the park by the geology museum.”

“That’s right! The geology museum.” Arianna leaned against him, a fond smile on her lips. “We plucked it from the earth and infused hot water with it; drinking the water healed me of every complaint!” The mistress of the house at this point gazed warmly at her firstborn. “A month later our Rapunzel came into this world with a crop of thick blonde hair.

“Lovely though it was, I fancied it’d be easier on her to have it short – little babies ought to have short hair anyway – so I grabbed my scissors to cut it. But when I did, the remaining hair darkened so quickly as if it died that I have not dared since.”

Hans listened to this story with growing agitation. Having a herbologist mother meant hours spent in the greenhouse listening to this and that about flora. When that herbologist mother was also proud and educated and a fellow of the Magical Herbological Society, a son had no choice but to be privy to gossip the likes of which his mother told him.

It must be frankly acknowledged that the boy had little to no interest in any plant-based field of study. Herbology, botany, horticulture, and agriculture never impressed young Johannes Westergaard quite as much as a simple rose bush, yet the story told by his landlady reminded him of a plant owned by a witch – a very specific witch – detested by his mama and every other herbologist. The former bore a grudge towards her for stealing the limelight off her own research, and the latter simply because this witch refused to loan out her flower for study.

With a trembling heart, he inquired after the appearance of the flower.

“It was a lily,” answered Mr. Frederic. His wife was too stunned. This was the first time she’s seen the normally cheerful boy disturbed. “The leaves were golden, and in the inner part was a deep lilac. It glowed in the dark too. We’ve never seen any flower do that so it had to be the one described in the book.”

“Are you alright?” asked Flynn, who had shared a baffled look with Rapunzel. “Is this flower special?”

“Well, you see,” Hans’ mind raced with the implications of this revelation. “My mother—”

His eyes fell onto Rapunzel’s beautiful golden hair. It was bound in a thick, complex braid which shimmered prettily beneath the artificial lights. Suddenly, a lesson floated to the front of his mind and he rose from the chair with an important air. “May I be excused for just a moment?” he asked. “I shall be back in two ticks.”

Before he even received an answer, the wizard shot off like a bullet down the stairs. The company heard the side door screech open and slam shut as he ran into the courtyard. Arianna regained her composure the quickest and excitedly patted her husband’s shoulder. “Thirteen sons!” she said in awe. “What a mother he has got! I want to meet her. Rapunzel, dear, have you ever read about Knight’s Roost in your books?”

Rapunzel shook her head. “My geography teacher said there are a lot of little villages on the southern coast. Apparently, the railway system misses them entirely. Most are practically cut off from Corona City!”

“That explains his accent,” said Flynn, resting his cheek against the palm of his hand. “And his clothes. I mean, who wears a waistcoat every day?

“He keeps calling you ‘Madam’,” added Frederic, addressing his wife. “I’ve heard him call me ‘Sir’.”

“You know how these old-fashioned families are,” she said. “I bet he bows to his parents first thing in the morning! Rapunzel, Flynn, I want you to be kind friends to Hans. He’s all alone in this big city and he is not allowed to go home for a year. While he does have his little cat for company, local human friends will do him good.”

“Of course, Mom!”

Rapunzel sympathised with this boy – she never had many friends herself. Her parents had home-schooled her till it was discovered that her mother was in the family way once more. The past few months were the busiest of her life what with starting school and befriending Cassandra in her class and meeting Flynn; this wizard boy was the perfect addition to her already wild life! And together they will combat loneliness bravely and courageously!

Her bright mind wasted not a single second in conjuring up plans for herself and Hans; beside her Flynn did the same, though his agenda was more mischievous with a spice of nefarious malevolence.

It was that flying broom that captivated his fancy. The heavens, after all, were the final frontier. Sure, there were hot air balloons and gliders and sky ships developing every day; but unless he decided to break the law earlier than he anticipated then he could not sneak onto one at the moment. That broom, he thought giddily, will let me touch the clouds way before the engineers!

Their schemes were cut short, however, by a loud thump downstairs which was succeeded by louder scrambling. Hans appeared at the doorway, cheeks flushed from exertion, a cat atop his head, and a neat leather-bound notebook in his arms.

“You alright?” asked Frederic.

“Yes, Sir,” replied Hans, setting his cat on a chair. “I owe you an explanation: you see, your fine story reminded me of a flower heralded as a legend among herbologists, healers, and potion-brewers. With your permission, I should like to either confirm or dispel my suspicions.”

He thrusted his book at the master of the house. The open pages showed a carefully illustrated flower exactly as Mr. Frederic remembered it: delicate, ethereal, fantastical. However, he was a baker and a sober one at that. “I assure you,” he said, “that there is not a drop of magical blood in us.”

“Sir,” said Hans, slowly and surely with a touch of that country condescension only audible to fellow gentlemen, though it slightly rubbed Frederic the wrong way. “Sir, I do not mean to be rude, but you cannot say you do not have a ‘drop of magical blood’ when your daughter has hair like that.”

Frederic stared at him flatly. “Very well,” he said.

“How will you test my hair?” said Rapunzel, who echoed the boy’s excitement and already let it fall loose.

Hans smiled. The girl was nice and kind whose eyes gleamed with intelligence. Clever children were apt at singling out their fellows, and Hans unknowingly decided that she would be a very good friend; already he found himself partial towards her. “First,” he said, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, “I need my cat to scratch me.”

“Why’s that?” asked Flynn.

“I don’t have any wounds currently and for the experiment to work I need one,” he explained as he coaxed an incredibly reluctant Sitron to harm him.  

“Does it have to be on you specifically?”

“No. Any ordinary wound will do.”

“Then I’m the guy you want.” Flynn sprung up from the chair and extended an open hand, revealing a nasty cut darkened by ugly scabs. “Here.”

Those who knew Flynn stared at him completely unimpressed. The boy was often caught up in brawls and regularly had policemen chasing after him for general mischief and for being a public nuisance. Frederic, Arianna, and Rapunzel were aware of this and did not even bat an eye at the new injury; the mistress automatically went and grabbed a plaster from the medical cupboard.

Hans, on the other hand, was ignorant to this fact and winced. Perhaps this was what his father disliked about urban hooligans. Country boys fought as often (if not oftener) than their urban counterparts, yet the injuries they sustained were bruises and bloodied fists; Flynn’s hand meanwhile had been slashed open.

“Thank you,” said the wizard, unsure of whether to be grateful or concerned or disgusted. He continued staring at as he reached for a strip of Rapunzel’s pretty hair, tying it around the injury. “While I cannot promise any results, should they occur then will you all promise not to break into a panic?”

That unnerved the parents, even Arianna who was interested in this investigation. “Will it hurt her?”

“Hurt her?” Despite himself, Hans flashed a wide grin. “No, of course not! If anything, Rapunzel is guaranteed safety against most health complaints. Now, is everyone ready?” The room nodded. “Alright, then I shall begin!” And so, with this final warning, the wizard took a deep breath and sang a tune which for so long had been considered to be both soothing and utterly ineffectual:

“Flower, gleam and glow,
Let your power shine.
Make the clock reverse
Bring back what once was mine.

Heal what has been hurt;
Change the Fate’s design.
Save what has been lost,
Bring back what once was mine,
What once was mine.”

Gold was her head. It shimmered at the roots before, like a lazy river, streaming down the length of her hair with a marvellous sheen. Rapunzel had fixed her gaze onto the hand, so only her parents noticed that the glow was confined to the yellow hair – the short, walnut tresses were as mundane as their own. As for the guinea pig known as Flynn Rider, he was disturbed by the excited smile on the calico cat’s too-expressive face. Sitron had stopped licking his paws clean, choosing instead to focus more intently on the show of magic that Hans had the honour of revealing to himself and the family firsthand (no pun intended).

Upon reaching the wound, the bandaged locks burned bright as a start and Hans’ fingers into the flesh from anxiety. His eyes were shut for he wanted to give himself completely to the song. Once he sung the final word, the golden hair dimmed to their workaday yellow and the wizard slowly, cautiously opened his eyes and hurriedly unwrapped the hand.

No cut.

There was no cut.

It worked! It had worked!

Hans twisted Flynn’s arm awkwardly as he presented the result to the most important individual in the room: Sitron, who meowed happily at the outcome. Neither knew what Mrs. Westergaard will make of the knowledge that the Sundrop Flower – the rarest and most sought-after bloom in the world – had been used to…infuse kettle water. Mrs. Westergaard might seize her husband’s attention for hours upon end to speak her mind on the matter, or she may hop on her broom and disappear into the eternal sky for the night. Whatever she might do, Hans and Sitron will certainly have plenty to discuss in their first letter home!

“Mom!” cried out Rapunzel. “The cut is gone!” She sprang to her feet and pushed herself close to Hans. “How did—How did that happen? What did you do?”

“Please,” laughed the wizard, hugging his purring little cat, “the magic was all yours, Miss Rapunzel! Madam and Sir here had found a Sundrop Flower and—”

“Which is?” demanded Flynn.

“Don’t interrupt me!” snapped Hans. “As I was saying, Madam and Sir found a Sundrop Flower, which according to legends were drops of sunlight manifested on earth. Mother’s notebook says here it has the ability to heal any worldly sickness or injury – fatal wounds included.” Gossipy witches pierced through the haze of his delight. “There is a witch called Gothel,” he added in remembrance, “that owns a specimen. She uses it to achieve immortality, or so I have heard and been told. Truly, I am surprised that this flower grew by—was it the geology museum you said?”

His question flew over the heads of Arianna and her husband. What was a geology museum to the power of healing every known ailment, every wound? And what was that about immortality?

Flynn, sharing their exact thoughts, clapped the boy back with just enough strength to hurt him a bit. “It’s rewind time, my good sir,” he said forcefully. “What the hell did you mean by immortality?”

“Flynn!” complained Rapunzel. “Language!”

“Rapunzel!” cried Flynn, shocked. “We learn that you’re immortal and the number one concern on your mind is my language?”

Hans raised his hands in alarm. “She is not immortal,” said he firmly.

“You said the witch is!”

“I mislike the inflection you used on the word.”

“Whatever. Could you please—” he flailed his hands— “elaborate?”

Sighing, the wizard sat back down on his seat. With Sitron purring like a motorbike on his lap, Hans started to scratch his ear while spinning his tale:

“Gothel uses her Sundrop Flower to push back death. Natural death is the outcome of the inevitable wearing and tearing of the body as its natural functions corrode over time. The Flower by the virtue of its powers reverses the process. The lyrics of the incantation are not there for beauty’s sake. The Sundrop Flower literally reverses the clock and brings back what once belonged to whomever is absorbing its powers.”

“It changes the Fate’s design,” murmured Rapunzel as she plaited her hair.

Hans smiled in affirmation, very much enjoying the authority of being the only expert on magic in the area. In truth he was far too young for his words to hold any weight, especially when his mother or brothers possessed actual specialisations of skill. Although one could argue that this being a most unique case, Hans had as much experience as his dear mother concerning Rapunzel’s condition.

“My mother,” he said, proud, “believes that if Gothel ever stopped using the Flower – or if it was destroyed – then the magic will break and all the age which she had delayed will come after her harshly and swiftly like a sword.”

“But what of Rapunzel?” asked Frederic.

“I think Miss Rapunzel became the new manifestation of the Sundrop Flower,” said Hans calmly. “Expecting women are forbidden from consuming some elixirs lest it adversely affects their unborn baby. Foetuses are like sponges in that they soak up just about everything their mothers eat and drink.”

“So, Rapunzel absorbed the flower’s properties whilst in the womb,” finished Arianna.

“That’s my theory, Mistress.” Hans took a sip of tea and frowned. It had gone cold. “Madam, may I have another mug of tea?”

“Oh, of course, dear.”

Arianna nodded mutely, moving to re-heat the water. Her husband stood from his chair and joined her by the counter, muttering something under his breath.

“Does that mean I can heal anything?” was Rapunzel’s question.

“You should. There is a reason why the Sundrop Flower is considered to be the Holy Grail among my fellow witches and wizards.”

The floodgates were promptly opened. Rapunzel and an increasingly-baffled Flynn ambushed Hans with inquiries of every nature about the Sundrop Flower. Their questions came in rapid-fire succession that would have shamed rifles till eventually the wizard, barely keeping up with their speed, buckled down under their enthusiasm and agreed to let them come into his room after supper to ensure he wrote down their queries in an express delivery to Mrs. Kristina Westergaard, witch, residing at the house on Fifteen Lionheart Lane, Knight’s Roost. 

Chapter Text

“Tell me that the night is long,
Tell me that the moon is glowing.
Fill my glass, I’ll sing a song
And will start the music flowing.

Never mind the rising light;
There’s no sign of day or dawning.
In my heart, it’s still the night
And we’ll stay here till the morning.”

Celtic Woman.

Bright and pleasant and blue was the sky above Knight’s Roost. Summer arrived in the village as it always did in bursts of merriment and laughter. Spring had borne and nurtured the livestock, the sturdy leafy trees, the meadows full of flowers, all the creatures of the forest and every new bird soaring across the heavens. They were grateful for it, they were, and though bidding it farewell was a bitter thing summer prepared to bathe Knight’s Roost in sunlit revelry.

Mr. Westergaard was fond of this time of year. His elder sons returned home from far-flung cities while his younger were all smiles as they paraded round the village green with dogs at their heels. Farmers were less tense as they had done their dues and rested for harvesting season. Besides collecting rent and checking on his tenants, the gentleman had little to do and so sat on the porch, enjoying a tall glass of lemonade and reading the weekly gazette.

Daily gazettes the likes of which plagued cities with bold headlines were non-existent in Knight’s Roost. This was a quiet village, thank you very much! Serene was their way of life, and what metropolises considered to be footnotes (that is if it was even printed onto paper) would be breaking news in this corner of the world.

Thus, it ought to be no surprise to the reader that Mr. Westergaard perked up like a pointer at the sight of the postman in his scarlet uniform. He placed aside the gazette and rose to meet the worker, exceedingly pleased that among the regular correspondence, rent cheques, and council commitments there was a letter from his lastborn.

Bidding the postman good day, Mr. Westergaard restrained himself from opening the long-awaited missive right there and instead went to find his wife. It did not take him long. Mrs. Westergaard was in the habit of admiring the seaside on hot days – the cool salty air cleared her head after days at the greenhouse or at home.

Briefly popping into the kitchen to grab a bottle of iced tea, the gentleman walked across his property till he reached the side gate that led straight to the seaside hills. He trod through the bending stalks of stormgrass, climbed up the rolling hills, and soon heard how the sea lapped at the shore.

Try as Mother Nature might to be quick-witted and magnificent, to Erik none of her wonders compared to his wife.

Sunlight fell on Kristina’s wavy chestnut hair, which for once tumbled past her shoulders in loose curls. Flowers red, yellow and blue surrounded her, brushing her fingers just as the wind swept across the meadows. A bright gleam then caught his attention. The eagles – his wife’s familiars – held in their beaks two silver pins. They flapped wildly around their mistress, and one dropped the pin in a bold attempt to steal the bright cornflower ribbon tying Erik’s hair.

“Leave it,” said its mistress, stern.

The eagle halted a finger’s breadth away from the desired object and, with disappointment somehow clearly evident on its avian face, flew round the man to settle beside his mistress. Erik followed suit, offering her the beverage and missive. “Hans has written!” he informed happily.

“So, he has!” said his wife, twisting open the cap. “Have you read it yet?”

Erik frowned. “Without you?”

Kristina smiled. “My apologies, Mr. Westergaard,” she said with good humour. “Well, let us see what our son says and, more importantly, where he resides. Will you read it aloud for me?”

“It shall be my pleasure,” said the gentleman, who for the past week had bothered his wife by openly (and constantly) wondering when the letter will come and whether Hans remembered to write and why the postal office was not what it used to be in his boyhood. Therefore, it was with genuine delight that Erik Westergaard broke the seal and orated the following:

City of Corona
Sixteenth of May, 19—

My dearest parents,

I hope you have been doing well since my leaving Knight’s Roost! As you’ve no doubt pieced together by the return address on the envelope, Sitron and I have settled in the City of Corona just up the coast from our home. I am glad to live just far enough for totally new experiences yet close enough to feel your presence in the ocean breezes and southern winds – I pray you feel likewise!

The city is so very fine! It rises from the seaside; from the broom it appears to be (and later I discovered it to be true) tiered, or perhaps the correct word would be terraced. There is everything I expected of a city of this scale: a grand clocktower, automobiles zooming along the streets, busy marketplaces, fancy people, and fancier shops lining the high streets. One such business that we recently spotted has on its window display the most beautiful pair of shoes that I had ever seen in my life! They are a cardinal red with silver-white buckles gleaming on top…and they are far too expensive for my current living. So, Mother, you mustn’t burden yourself with saying that I will outgrow them for they are beyond me.

Truth be told, everything seems to be so egregiously overpriced in the city. What costs a shilling back home is at least double the price here; Sitron and I are managing the budget meticulously, though it is a challenge when he starts craving charlotte cakes or when the aforementioned shoes appear in my dreams. But we are trying!

With such costs of living, it was by sheer good fortune that we found a home. Accommodations I have been given by a most obliging woman: Madam Arianna. She and her husband run a bakery together, and have kindly provided me with a room above the storage shed.

Flour covered every square inch of our room. Sitron and I spent the whole of the first night cleaning and washing and tidying (I say ‘Sitron and I’ when in reality he sat and watched me; should you ask him though then he will spin a completely different tale for you). We suffered an incident, if you will, but overall, the room was gleaming by the time we were finished.

Madam Arianna and Mr. Frederic, her husband, are so very obliging! The former does not expect me to pay rent so long as I help around the bakery by minding the shopfront, stock the shelves, and arrange the goods on the display. You might understandably wonder what use do a husband and wife have of a young wizard, and the truth is that I have yet to crack the code myself. Although a part of it is related to Madam’s current condition – she is in the family way.

This is not her first time expecting a child, but their firstborn daughter is my age so I will leave it to you to imagine their stress regarding a thirteen-year break. Their daughter – Miss Rapunzel – helps around the bakery as well. However, she enrolled to a proper school this year and is unable to mind the till at daytime. The family does not wish to tempt fate and the second babe with strenuous activity. So, I fill in the gap left by Miss Rapunzel.

My landlady and hers are a respectable lot, therefore it is my greatest wish that Mother will not be terribly upset when I inform her that Miss Rapunzel is a curious creature. I will digress this matter later down the page, but you and Father must remember that what Madam Arianna and her husband had done they did out of anxious ignorance.

As for my profession – and again I hope Mama will be neither upset nor disappointed – I have set up shop as a deliverer. Flying shortens the legs of a journey; already I’ve had customers pay me well for express deliveries. Indeed, my very first customer (who coincidentally is also my neighbour) gave me what could be argued as a too-large sum of money for what I expected to be a simple job. Those could be my rural sensibilities talking, however, as a single trip to get groceries was a stressful affair in its own right.

I thanked the good woman profusely – her generosity covered the cost of a fancy mug Sitron demanded we buy.

You might have noticed that I said that I had expected the job to be simple, yet the reality was far more exciting! As the weather was fine, I flew so high up that Sitron reminded me that the package was to be delivered to mortals, not angels.

We flew for a while with a flock of wild geese. Two issues arose:

• I am not gifted in understanding the speech of birds.
• Sitron was not a quick enough translator.

The geese warned us of an oncoming gust of strong wind, but we took too long deciphering their message that I could not avoid it when it hit us. Before Father has a stroke, however, I am pleased to report that neither geese nor we have gained any injuries! Though the package could not boast the same as it had slipped from the handle of the broom. By the time I caught in mid-air, the contents had fallen.

I should at this point clarify that the package was an iron bird cage with a plush calico cat inside addressed to a boy living on the green belt. The plushie had dropped into the local woods like a shooting star and, since the delivery really was urgent, Sitron valiantly volunteered to play the part of the doll whilst I searched for the true gift.

Within the gloom of the forest that is much thicker and denser in foliage than ours at home, I stumbled upon a wooden cabin situated in a small clearing. There the plush doll stood at the windowsill. The door was flung wide open, so I took the liberty of snooping around bit. A riot of paints and brushes greeted me. In short, this was what my brother Henrik’s room would have looked like had Mother ever stopped pressuring him into cleanliness.

Unsurprisingly, this was the home of an artist. A most curious, most interesting artist if I may be so bold to say! His name is Murphy Stabbington; he is about three-four years my senior; and he has been living alone the woods for quite a few years now. Not only does he live alone in the woods like some kind of an artistic anchorite, but he is a great friend to birds (of which I know Mother will approve).

When I first saw him, he sat atop the roof sketching a throng of crows. They did not like me much for reasons irrelevant, though their affection for Murphy Stabbington was obvious. For all of his aloofness, he seems to be a decent fellow and has cordially invited me to come see him when convenient. How wonderful is that? It is just as Father had said: I am making so many good friends in the city!

Murphy gave me the plush and promptly I flew to retrieve dear, dear Sitron. I still flush at the memory of that blunder. Regardless, succeeding jobs have gone smoother and let us pray they remain that way.

We returned to the bakery late that day. Tired as dogs and hungrier still, we landed in the courtyard with every expectation of eating pancakes and bananas for supper (I promise we bought normal produce at the supermarket – I just lacked the desire to cook properly). Whatever our plans were, they were unmade upon our arrival as we were ambushed by the aforementioned Miss Rapunzel and her friend, Flynn Rider.

I must be very careful in the following passage for it concerns my want of your good opinion of them. What I failed to include in my earlier description of Miss Rapunzel is that she has dual-coloured hair. Half of her head is as golden as your wedding bands, the other is the earthy brown colour she had inherited from her parents. At my confusion, Madam Arianna told me how ill she was throughout her first pregnancy. No doctor could relieve her of pain. To somehow amuse his poorly wife, Mr. Frederic bought an old book concerning plants and one of the pages was naturally dedicated to the Sundrop Flower.

Bafflingly, this pair of bakers somehow managed to find the Sundrop Flower by the local geological museum. Mr. Frederic plucked and boiled it in hot water which he later gave his wife to drink. When the day of labour had come, Madam Arianna was delivered of a healthy baby girl whose head gleamed golden (rather striking since old family pictures peppered around the house show generations upon generations of brunettes).

Madam said that as she believed long hair to be cumbersome for infants, she cut half of it off with one decisive swoop. The result of this strategic haircut was that the side trimmed immediately darkened at once and never grew in length again. Subsequently, this incident frightened Madam so much that she hadn’t dared to repeat this experiment, leaving Miss Rapunzel with hair which simultaneously fell beyond her back and slightly above her shoulders.

As we all know, the unborn absorb whatever their mamas consume; with this in mind as well as those rumours surrounding Miss Gothel, I conducted an experiment of my own with the golden tresses. Flynn Rider had a large cut on his hand – he is the sort of boy, I think, who gets caught up in brawls. I wrapped the hair around it like a bandage and sung the infamous incantation.

Mother, Father, it is my duty as well as my pleasure to inform you that it was a success! The wound on Flynn Rider’s hand healed so perfectly that one could never tell that there was once a nasty cut slashed across the skin. I believe Miss Rapunzel to be the human form of the Sundrop Flower as she soaked up its powers in the womb. More importantly, does this not mean that Miss Gothel is incorrect in her claims that there can only be one Sundrop Flower at a time on Earth?

Miss Rapunzel and Flynn Rider have endless questions that I cannot answer without the aid of our library. I hope Mother will do me the service of answering their inquiries (which I’ve included on a separate sheet)! Personally, I think Madam and Sir are greatly concerned for their daughter as they’ve little understanding of magic. I’ve told them that you might come visit me on my birthday and, should you do, they may ask your advice on what to expect from Miss Rapunzel.

Now I will conclude for this time as I am running out of space and my hand begins to cramp. Please give my warmest regards to my older brothers, my dear friends, and our excellent neighbours. To you, Mama and Papa, I send my tenderest affections and kindest wishes! Believe me always to be your devoted and most faithful son,

Hans W.

P.S. Could you please send me a postcard signed by all of my brothers? I keep telling Miss Rapunzel and Flynn Rider that there really are thirteen of us but they refuse to believe me. I am growing rather tired of playing defendant at court.

Kristina became stiller the further her husband read. Her disbelief was profound. So profound, in fact, that it unnerved the eagles on her arm and lap enough to compel them to fly away. Erik meanwhile was so very relieved that his son was housed by a married couple with a child for there were no other people he’d trust with being landlord to his son than fellow parents.

He was happily ignorant to his wife’s rapidly worsening disposition.

“How capital it is that Hansel already has friends to keep him company!” exclaimed that good man. “Miss Rapunzel sounds like a lovely young girl, though I do wish he had elaborated more on the character of this Flynn Rider boy. He cannot be too bad a child seeing that the bakers like him, but additional information never hurts. And an artist in the forest!” Erik laughed. “At least it is not an anchorite he has met! Well, this Mr. Stabbington proved himself cordial with the invitation.” He paused. “Although how could he not? Everyone decent ought to like our son, and company must be wanting in the forest.”

“Darling, what do you think Gothel’s Flower and that urban specimen have in common?” asked his wife.

It must be said to the reader that Mrs. Kristina Westergaard had heard and listened to her husband’s musings. She also knew best of his capacity to talk endlessly of their children. Thus, her decision to cut to the chase was one borne of years of experience as his lady wife.

“They are both of the sun, are they not?” suggested Erik. “It is fitting that another such flower would bloom in the City of Corona – their town heraldry is a radiant sun on a field of purple.”

“Yes, well—” Kristina sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of her sharp nose. “Oh, I hope Hans and Rapunzel do not abuse this discovery. I shall write to our son that they must not repeat the incantation till November when I can properly examine the girl.”

“They are thirteen years of age, Krissie. They will exploit this power.”

“I am allowed to hope,” she said. “And I have to write out this command regardless if they will listen to it, if only for propriety’s sake and should something ill happen then I can say that I told them so.”

Erik chuckled and kissed her on the cheek.

Husband and wife sat on the hillside, watching the azure sea lap at the shores. Each occupied their minds with different yet related thoughts: the gentleman wondered how his son got on in the city and whether or not this Mr. Frederic had family in the country with which he might be acquainted; the lady weighed the pros and cons of her son becoming a delivery boy. A diviner Hans was not. Neither was he particularly apt at curse-breaking or transfiguration. Delivering packages might not be the best way to spend a year abroad honing his crafts compared to potion-brewing, however, she had to admit that it was arguably the most lucrative trade. People paid extra for express post and here her child soared with an angel’s grace carrying their missives in half the time of an earthly postman.

“I should like to prepare a package for Hans,” said Kristina firmly.

Erik said with a start, “May I ask whence comes this resolve?”

She shrugged. “Hans praises Madam Arianna for lodging him on extremely generous conditions. I do not question her goodness, her respectability. But I cannot help a sense of distrust towards her for being so quick to accept him.”

“My mother lodged you within a quarter of an hour.”

“A lady of a manor and a baker are not comparable, Erik,” she said. “Mrs. Westergaard was very good to me, and I want Hans to be treated well by his landlady. And I do not want those bakers to think us neglectful parents for sending our thirteen-year-old on his merry way into a big city. Their elder daughter must have been home-schooled – odd for a city child – and that tells me plenty about them.”

“Hans will explain our customs to them,” assured Erik, hand on her waist. “There is no mother finer than you, Krissie, save perhaps my own. Though we must keep in mind that mine had two sons and you thirteen.”

“Well,” his wife slapped on a mischievous expression, “you saw to that yourself, unsatiable man that you are!”

Erik grinned and buried his face in the crook of her neck, beard tickling her skin. With laughter reminiscent of bells, Kristina flung her arms around him and pushed them so that they rolled down the hill. They landed at the base of the meadow with a soft thud against the earth, smiling brightly at each other.

Kristina positioned herself so that she rested on her husband’s arm, hand on his chest. Wild birds flew around them, flowers grew beneath them. She sighed and looked up at her husband. His green eyes always stood out to her in contrast to his flaming hair. Although the energy of youth gradually left them as they aged comfortably into the afternoon years of their lives, there were bursts of rather improper spontaneity similar to those of their courtship days.

They lay there for a while. The sky before them went from bright blue to soft shades of purple and pink and orange. We will not divulge the private conversations between husband and wife, though our readers will surely have no difficulty imagining the happiness present on that meadow.

Soon the crescent shadow of the moon marked the hour, and with utmost reluctance did Erik and Kristina rise from their soft bed of stormgrass. Arm-in-arm they made their slow journey back to their home with two eagles flying around them as if they wished to protect them from harm.

“Oh, I do miss them, I do,” said Kristina upon seeing a stray calico cat. Her head rested against his shoulder. “Hans flies in the wind and rain. It is a question of when, not if, he will catch a cold – my preserves will help him. Cherry jams, pickled tomatoes, pickled garlic will do nicely.”

“Truth be told,” said Erik softly, “I’m more concerned by those red shoes he mentioned.”

“Good heavens, do not even speak of them,” she said, exasperated and chuckling. “There are so many lovely things sold in metropolises; God willing Hans will not be enamoured by everything that shines and glitters. I had nothing and nobody to tempt me when I first landed in Knight’s Roost; thus, my coin purse thickened like a factory master.”

“There was nobody to tempt you?” inquired Erik archly.

“Nobody but you, my dear,” rectified Kristina with a smirk, and her husband smiled.

***

The exhausting adventures surrounding his first delivery were, thankfully, singular. Succeeding weeks saw him deliver letters, small packages, birthday parcels, and on one very dull morning a mother rang him up and said she’d pay him double the standard rate of the largest package for him to transport her son to school as the bus was dreadfully late and there was an exam at stake.

Hans – when not clutching the shirts of ten-year-old boys or teenage love letters – forsook his broom in favour of exploring the city on foot with Rapunzel (who had insisted that he drop her title). The pair had quickly bonded over a shared love of books. One sunny Saturday, she had buzzed her parents’ ears off till they released Hans from counter duties. She then grasped his hand, pulled him out onto the street, and ran with him all the way to the largest second-hand book shop in the city.

Mother was right in making me leave my books at home, he thought as he and Rapunzel ate ice with a backpack full of new treasures. The May sun beat down on them fiercely, and Hans lamented that he was no water elemental.

“What’s the difference between you and an elemental?” asked Rapunzel, brows lifted in curiosity. “And how are you different from your mother? You say she’s a witch, though you are a wizard.”

“Elementals bear an unusually strong connection to various forces of the natural world. There is a girl in Arendelle City who can bend ice to her will, or so I heard,” said Hans, licking his lemon ice pop. “She’s a curious case in that her parents have no magic in them, and these powers tend to be hereditary. My uncle’s wife comes from a long line of water and wind elementals; half my cousins walk on water and the other half jump from heights, saving themselves by summoning strong winds to soften their landing.

“As for my mother, she is a witch because she is a woman with magic in her blood. Most witches are born with supernatural abilities, yet it was not unheard-of for women to gain or awaken powers later in life. Mother can perform most spells and, similar to an elemental, she can manipulate natural forces of the world. The greatest difference is that each draws their power from fundamentally different sources. Elementals derive their power from their specific natural phenomenon while a witch like my mother would be required to tap into her own strength to mimic them.”

Rapunzel ate up the information eagerly. The arcane was not part of the school program. Sure, Flynn taught her loads which was not included but his lessons were mostly about brawls and thievery, not magic and spells and secret societies.

“Wizards are essentially male witches,” continued Hans. “It really is a tricky term as the immediate association is that of an old, slouched, eccentric man in a stone tower hidden in bogs or mountains. Generally speaking, wizards are the best educated members of the community. So much so that quite a few witches dub themselves wizardesses to distinguish themselves at research conferences.” He smiled. “After all, you cannot compare a thirteen-year-old girl barely knowing her bestiary with a seventy-year-old woman whose life was dedicated to discovering the medical uses of dragon’s blood.”

“What is a witchman then?”

“Witchmen are warriors. They use their gifts to slay wild beasts and do work that would kill a regular witch or wizard.” Hans threw the wooden stick into a rubbish bin and wiped his mouth with a hemstitched handkerchief. “I’ve a brother whose entire career is based on breaking curses and killing monsters – everyone calls him a witchman.”

“Is that so! Then what is…” and so their conversation went.

Their days were spent in smart conversations, their nights in board games and book clubs with Flynn being an unwilling participant. Hans triumphed where Rapunzel had failed: he convinced that boy to sit down and read a book that isn’t one of those cheap pulp fictions.

How did he achieve this? It was very simple! Unlike Rapunzel, whose sweet temper prevented her from expressing the true extent of her disappointment, Hans openly and viciously began to bully his peer till the latter buckled down and finally read all of Miss Austen’s Persuasion within a fortnight.

Thus, a hot and humid evening by the seaside was dedicated solely to the two quizzing the third musketeer on the book to determine whether or not he actually truly read it or if he stole some poor child’s literature schoolbook and went through its notes.

Flynn licked crumbs off his fingers with the patronizing, confident air of a rogue. “Guys, I can read. Can we stop?”

“We are not asking after your literacy,” said Hans, wiping his own hands with a handkerchief. “We want to know if you use it.”

“But most importantly is that you enjoyed it!” Rapunzel offered them more cinnamon cakes and popped one into her own mouth. “We’ve compiled a list of book recommendations for you!”

“Oh my god,” murmured Flynn.

As he prepared to make a run for it, their little book club was interrupted by a weeping toddler wandering aimlessly down the street. Wearing a floral yellow dress lovingly sewn by a mother’s hand, the little girl was neat and tidy save for skinned knees. Fat tears rolled down her round cheeks, her face red from crying.

Hans, contrary to what people may assume from his upbringing, was not yet comfortable with dealing with younger children. Oftener than not, he was the baby. And his elder brothers were usually around to deal with the weeping tots on their street.

Rapunzel fared no better as she had absolutely no experience in this aspect. Her parents were quick to dote on her and, by no fault of their own, raised her with the expectations that she would be their sole offspring and cared not for her aptitude with possible siblings.

Subsequently it fell onto Flynn Rider to calm the child and search for its parents. He lifted her into his skinny arms, wiped her tears with his crimson bandana, and ordered Hans to fly above the promenade to see if he could find any anxious parents.

Dignity demanded the wizard argue with the boy on this point as it was unseemly in his opinion for someone like Flynn Rider to tell him what to do, lost children or not.

His mention of magic and the gust of wind blowing strands of golden hair into her mouth lit a lightbulb in Rapunzel’s head. She rose with eager pride from the bench to relieve her friend of the child. “Would you like to see magic?” she asked.

The little girl blinked, her large blue eyes still watery with unshed tears, and slowly nodded.

Rapunzel smiled and tugged her hair free of bands. Then she bandaged the scraped knees, softly singing the song which Hans had taught her. As described in the preceding chapter, her hair glowed magnificently and burned the brightest around the wounds. The little girl clutched at the bodice of Rapunzel’s dress. She did not yell as an adult would do – children accepted wonders easily and wholeheartedly – but warily kept her hands to herself. That, of course, ended once she saw her knees healed. Within seconds Rapunzel gained an otherworldly aura to the little girl and Hans for the first time felt scornful towards the freeness with which his friend carried herself.

No sooner had the child been healed than its parents emerged from the crowd, thanks and relief jumping from their tongues. The child babbled happily to its parents about Rapunzel, and it would’ve disclosed everything its young mind made of the supernatural hair had Hans not made bold and discreetly cast a drowsy spell upon the girl.

With the child safe with its parents and the three companions jauntily walking up the hill to the bakery, Flynn playfully clapped Hans’ back. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet since the incident.”

“I’m just thinking,” muttered the wizard.

“About what?” asked Rapunzel.

Hans sighed, then stepped in front of them in as decisive as a boy of thirteen could be. He pointed at the young girl with a judgmental finger and proclaimed, “You mustn’t be too generous with your powers!”

Rapunzel started. “Why not?”

“You are undervaluing it!” Hans, arms on his hips, was the very image of his mother arguing with alien customers who’ve no desire to pay the full price. “We are lucky that sunlight diminished the glow of your hair as it would have attracted the attention of scoundrels and charlatans. Guilds and unions exist to protect our rights and they can only exist when everyone follows the rules!”

“Witches have unions?” asked Flynn.

“Well, I am too young to join those organisations!” countered Rapunzel fiercely. “Though,” she chewed the lining of her cheek, “Though I get where you are coming from; we studied workers’ unions at school last week and they do a lot of good.” A grin split her charming face much to their surprise. “Do you have pamphlets?”

“Pamphlets?”

“Yeah! To read about the guilds?”

Hans had not expected Rapunzel to be so very obliging. His earlier quietness was in fact mental preparation for an argument. The House of Westergaard was filled to the brim with argumentative people. Their bickering ranged from trivial matters as to who ate the last slice of cake to whose fault it was that a cousin was missing and why so-and-so returned for afternoon tea with a broken leg.

“I’ll ask Mother,” said Hans with a giddy feeling in his chest. So, this was what it felt like to have your way without having to argue with ten other people for an hour? He could get used to this! “I’m sure she will gladly send us a few.”

Rapunzel gleamed. He offered her his arm, which she accepted after a moment’s startlement. Together they walked up the hill, laughing and discussing Austen’s works, with Flynn Rider trailing behind them.

The eldest of the three, Flynn was long-used to being the centre of attention and read people well. Hans was the first person to treat him with an air of cold indifference, something he quickly learned he disliked. This was part of the reason why he enjoyed riling him so badly. Better to have him scowling and muttering than staring impassively.

Well, thought the young man, I’ve one trick left up my sleeve. One’s brain had to be covered in a thick layer of dusty inactivity to not see that Hans was a creature fond of all that glittered and shone.

Flynn was unsure whether or not his soon-to-be friend was actually a socialite in the making (how busy could a small village be?), but there was a certain je ne sais quoi about him hinting that, given the opportunity, the boy would gladly leave his quiet little village and become a true society lion.

They had returned to the house in good spirits. Hans and Rapunzel went to their respective rooms to leave their books; the former returned with his broom and cat, the latter clad in stockings. Miss Rapunzel, quite like her friend Mr. Rider, was keen on touching the clouds and developed a habit of wearing stockings when she knew the broom would be brought. After all, it never hurt to be prepared.

With two children on their feet and the third gently soaring beside them, they once again sauntered down the hill till the sounds of merriment caught the latter’s attention. “Is today a feast day of sorts?” he asked.

“It’s June,” said Flynn matter-of-factly, as if naming the month cleared up the fog of confusion on the wizard’s face.

“The first week of June is always celebrated in Corona City,” supplied Rapunzel. “We’ve dances and fireworks and parties to welcome summer! Do you have anything similar in Knight’s Roost?”

Hans shook his head. “Our big festivities are mostly in spring and autumn. It suits farmers’ beliefs and schedules better. Our biggest summer party would be the feast honouring the memory of a local hero.”

“I see,” said Rapunzel, thoughtful. 

She then darted her head from her levitating friend and the sound of music. She grabbed Flynn’s hand, leaned close, and whispered a cunning plan into his ear. Before Hans could reprimand them for their rudeness, however, he screamed in fright as Flynn seized him from the broom. Kicking and protesting, they carried him to the small market square to the tune of Rapunzel promising it will be fun.

Unceremoniously put to the ground, Hans and Sitron shakily leaned against the side of a building for stability. Long purple banners flapped around them. Each triangle bore a glowing sun on its face, and the people dancing beneath them wore clothes of lilac and mauve and violet and lavender.

Sitron personally was captivated by the sight of four young girls – sisters by the looks of them – braiding each other hair in what could be considered avantgarde hairstyles.

Hans kept a tight hold on his friend lest he fall and be trampled upon by the dancers. Then it dawned upon him that his dear broom must’ve been left behind; but as he turned to run after it, he saw Flynn Rider perched atop a roof (heavens only knew how he managed to scale it so quickly) clutching its handle like some vulture.

His satisfied grin did not improve the comparison.

As he prepared to curse that hooligan, Rapunzel called out his name and beckoned him to join her in the dance. “You should go!” said Sitron as encouragement.

“Don’t be daft! Why would I do such a thing?”

“Because you like to dance! How many dancing shoes have you destroyed last summer alone?”

Hans, whose face had already coloured, heightened in indignation. “That’s different. I’ve danced with the people of Knight’s Roost since I took my first steps, and—”

Not the one to be passive, Rapunzel twirled to him and forcefully pulled him into the merry current of revellers. Sitron aptly escaped the torrent, choosing instead to join Flynn Rider on the rooftop with whom he shared a knowing smirk.

From their vantage point, the pair saw their friends spin like planets around the glorious sun. It reminded the cat of a popular village song – We’ll watch as the heavens turn round and round; watch as they turn around; round, round and round…

“I hate to admit it,” said Flynn to him, “but when Hans said he was a good dancer I did not think he’d be this good. I reckon he’s better than me, and I also like to dance all the time.” He ran a gentle hand through the calico fur, scratching a spot between the shoulder blades that evaded Sitron. “Say – you know him best – do you think if I’m stubborn enough then he will eventually come to like me as much as Rapunzel? Or maybe half as much. I can settle for that too.”

Sitron would have gladly said that Hans had already begun to develop a begrudging affection towards Flynn, though he worried that openly saying it would reverse all of it. Instead he purred loudly, basking in the affection, and curled up on the boy’s warm lap. His tail thumped steadily against the thigh in quiet affirmation.

Flynn, who read animals as well as people, smiled. “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

“Little child,
Be not afraid;
Though thunder explodes
And lightning flash
Illuminates your tear-stained face
I am here tonight.”

Vienna Teng.

Hans was terribly, horrendously, dreadfully, exasperatingly bored. The bakery was duller and emptier than a village idiot. Affairs were so slow that Mr. Frederic had halted the kneading and baking of the dough to read the daily gazette in the courtyard while his wife sat upstairs knitting a cardigan for the baby.

Had Rapunzel been at home then Hans would have surely amused himself with their delightful conversations. Their chats were always so very fun, but she was gone, and he sat on a low chair behind the counter, watching a young man and his miss ride off on a white motorcycle.

Automobiles, warm bodies, crammed living quarters, and busy streets produced enough heat to rival the sun itself. The bakery, situated atop a hill, was spared most of the aforementioned plights. Yet the stoves in the back of the house were forever pre-heating or blazing, and Hans categorically refused to dress down as he felt he was not close enough to the family to disregard his workaday attire.

He yearned for the gentle breeze of the sea and cold lemonade chilled in the ice box, the swims in the river with his brother and pleading his mama to cast a cooling spell over the house lest they all melt. Village summers were precious to him. Hans would twist an ankle in flight to be able to jump into the sea without fear of being crushed by a cargo ship that peppered the coastline of the city.

“You should sit properly,” said Sitron, hopping onto the counter. His fur was wet from having tipped over a bucket of water drawn from the well. “What if a customer comes?”

“I shall straighten my spine then.” Hans sighed and shut his eyes. “Oh, how I wish Rapunzel did not call upon that friend of hers! Her company would’ve made a world of difference.”

“Well, you should introduce yourself to Miss Cassandra and then Rapunzel will bring her here and you will not sigh wistfully for the twentieth time.”

“I’ve no want to be introduced to Miss Cassandra.”

“Why not?”

“Flynn told me that her father was the very officer who accosted us on our first day in the city.” Hans tilted his head so that his cheek touched the wood. “He must’ve told his daughter about a bothersome wizard of a boy who nearly caused an accident on the road; fancy us having a grand time with Rapunzel only to be taken into custody by Miss Cassandra and her papa. We will have to flee Corona City at once for I won’t be sitting around in a police station. Not in this heat!”

Sitron licked his paw. “That’s fair, I suppose,” he said. “But I still think you should sit up straight.”

Hans obeyed the command instinctually for the simple reason that the cat employed the exact tone used by Mrs. Westergaard when she demanded correct posture of her sons. Then immediately he complained, “We’ve no customers!”

“It is a workday. People will come for their daily bread once they leave their offices.”

“Sitron, I meant us.” Hans helped himself to a biscuit. “If we do not have any jobs soon then it shall be pancakes for eternity.”

“We will be fine so long as you stop burning the pancakes,” said Sitron innocently.

Hans stared at him archly. “You’re going to become fatter than Stjerne,” he said, referring to the exceptionally round white cat they kept at Knight’s Roost.

Naturally, they started to outwit each other with an unhealthy dose of snark in their tones.

Since they were so busy coming up with clever turns of phrases, neither noticed a familiar presence standing right outside the front door.

Mr. Flynn Rider was glad of it. He had taken special pains to dress nicely that morning. Hair combed, shoes polished, and bandana (at which Hans regularly started quizzically) stuffed into his pocket alongside a prim letter of invitation, the youth took three deep breaths for composure’s sake before taking one last look through the window.

Hans was talking on the phone, ignoring his disgruntled cat. There was a smile as he presumably wrote down customer information. Flynn watched him for a moment and decided that the boy had a very pleasant face when not scolding him.

Such a shame the expression disappeared as swiftly as the doorbell rang.

“Hi!” Flynn strode towards him, resting his elbows on the counter.

“Hello.” Hans folded his hands and watched him with morose anticipation.

The elder boy nimbly picked a biscuit from a woven basket and handed the other a coin. “A slow day, huh?”

“Customers will come for their daily bread soon enough,” answered Hans sternly.

Sitron rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come now!” Flynn laughed. “Stop being mad at me for carrying you like a bride that day.” He bit into the treat. “And for taking your broom.”

“And?” demanded the wizard.

He sighed. “And for trying to ride it. Listen,” Flynn reached for the letter, “me and my friends are going to a party tonight with a bunch of our acquaintances, Rapunzel and Cassandra included. They’d all love to meet you. Here’s the invitation!”

It should come as no surprise to the reader that Hans Westergaard was a vainglorious creature. Being told that people would love to make his acquaintance was flattering enough; but seeing how pretty this charming letter was the cherry on top. A single surreptitious glance was all the wizard needed to discern the quality of the cream paper elegantly wrapped with a pink bow. It was closer to the nice paper used at Fifteen Lionheart Lane than the rough sheets given to him by his father. And on the face of the letter was written a most respectful address: Master Wizard.

Hans was tempted to forget his natural disdain for the boy just to touch this invitation. He certainly forgot himself as a blush appeared on his cheeks, and Flynn settled quietly to himself that as fun as it was to irritate his friend into a fit of vexation, seeing him honestly surprised and fighting off a smile was easier on them both.

Their privacy was suddenly broken by the arrival of a short, stout man with a black moustache wearing a broad-brimmed hat and a loose beige suit. In his arms was a hefty package. “I heard this place does deliveries.”

“You are very correct, sir!” exclaimed Hans.

I have an urgent order – has to be taken this instant.”

Hans hurried from behind the counter and relieved the man of the burden. Scarcely had the rope passed into his grasp when the sheer weight of whatever was inside the cardboard box pulled him to the floor.

“It isn’t too heavy?” asked the man.

“No, no! I am fine, sir.”

“Do you need any help?” asked Flynn.

“I’m fine!”

Flynn, who was generally inclined to disobey Hans, ignored the statement, and helped him carry the weighty box to a set of scales propped up against the wall. Anyone familiar with postal services will be aware that to send a package one must first weigh it, calculate the cost, enlighten the client of their options, and then send the package on the delivery way – a lengthy process no doubt! Flynn Rider had been privy to this process already as Rapunzel had told him much about it. So, he pushed the letter onto Hans’ chest and said, “I’ll come for you at six o’clock!” before dashing out of the bakery.

Hans reddened. “Wait a second—!”

“How much will it be?” inquired the man.

“Oh, sir, one moment!” His tone changed from anger to deference as he processed the order. Challenging though it would be to fly with that box, its weight earned him a handsome sum of money as well as a generous tip for immediate delivery. He handed the customer the check, waited for him to disappear out of sight, and promptly scrambled up the stairs with a palpitating heart. “Madam Arianna! Madam! Ma’am!”

The mistress of the house raised her head at the call. She was comfortably settled against the soft pillows on her sofa, knitting needles in hand and a delightful programme on the television. Days were slow; she had not even heard any sign of customers besides a phone call. “Is something the matter, Hans?” she asked earnestly.

Hans had slammed into a dresser in his hurry to reach her. No sooner had he abruptly halted his step than Arianna fixed her attention on a letter in his hands. Having seen how formal the envelopes from Knight’s Roost were, she feared that perhaps something terrible had happened at home. But her concerns were washed away like dust after a summer rain when Hans took a deep breath and said, “Whatever am I to do, Madam? I’ve been invited to some party by Flynn Rider – the one your daughter is attending – and it is tonight! I’ve barely any time to send out an acceptance and he just said that he’ll come for me at six.”

A smile split her face; joy shone in her eyes. Arianna had asked her firstborn and her faithful friend to include Hans in their revelries and it pleased her to know that they were true to their word. Rapunzel she had no doubt would include the boy in her activities, but young Flynn enjoyed riling people up for no reason. To hear that he took the initiative to be friendly without her daughter looming over him!

“What wonderful news!” she exclaimed in hearty approval. “You will go, won’t you? It will be so much fun.”

Hans coloured deeper. “I’ve nothing nice to wear,” he said bitterly. “You’ve seen my clothes, Ma’am. Bless them, they are scruffy and cosy like an old tea gown, though they are hardly fit for a party.” And I will fling myself from the Witch’s Field if I am dressed poorer than Flynn ‘I wear a bandana like a crook’ Rider of all people, he thought.

“Oh, you worry too much,” said Arianna, chuckling. “Don’t you know it is very fashionable now to wear old clothes? The youth borrow their grandparents’ outfits and call it ‘vintage’. And waistcoats,” she added with a wink, “are the most elegant thing a boy could wear.”

“Really?”

“Really.” She raised a brow. “Are there any clients in need of delivering?”

Hans glanced at the clock ticking on the wall and his eyes widened. “It’s the fifth hour already?” said he, incredulous. “I must fly off this instant and—” he leaned far back to see Arianna, his body having already shot off like a bullet, “—Madam, I do apologize, but you must mind the counter now!”

With that the young wizard scooped up his cat and package, carelessly throwing them onto his shoulder and broom respectively. As expected, the latter pulled his broom down to the ground. Deep concentration was required of all parties to fly evenly between the tall buildings, and Hans used his legs to accelerate the speed with steady pushes against tiled roofs and sun-bleached walls. A crude method commonly used by those only starting to fly, yet one that stabilised him.

Landing was an easy task. True difficulty came later, when he had to hoist that wretched box up several flights of stairs. Hans was required to rest every twelve steps, and his gregarious nature was put to the test on the final leg of the journey where he had to knock on the doo with a smile on his face.

Hans and Sitron eagerly ran down the stairs – free of the burden – and reached for the skies with babyish enthusiasm. “And how,” said the former, “did Mother fly with toddlers hanging off her broom like laundry on a clothesline?”

“Witches tend to be better flyers than wizards,” said Sitron. “Though I agree with you. Honestly, were I Mama then I would have opted for the Russian-style.”

“Gosh, that’s a magnificent image, don’t you think?” Hans laughed. “Mother sitting inside a mortar, shooting through the night sky. I bet she could fly around with Father in tow!”

As is the way with children, they soon devolved into merriment that only doubled upon seeing the house of their second client. The woman on the phone had described it a large, blue-roofed house, and though the description was technically correct, the reality was much grander.

Vines climbed up the brick walls; a sunroom and orangery revealed themselves to be homes of all sorts of plants that Mrs. Westergaard grew herself; patches of colourful flowers lined the path to the front door, which was carved and decorated with details made of stained glass. Right above the stained pictures gleamed and glittered in copper letters the name of the family who were blessed to call this house a home.

Truth be told, Hans was reminded of his own home on Fifteen Lionheart Lane – a compliment he did not bestow easily.

Removing himself off the broom was the first thing he had done upon landing. It was custom among the flighted to knock on clients’ or acquaintances’ doors standing on their own two God-given feet. Hans, who was raised properly, did just that and was received by an old woman wearing a pink gown, her brown hair pulled into a tight bun. 

“Good day, Ma’am,” said Hans with a bow. “My name is Hans Westergaard. I have come to pick up a package.”

“A package, you say?” She moved to the side. “Come in then, young man.”

The house was as capital inside as it was on the outside. At the sight of old luxury, the two friends felt as if they were at their grandparents’ estate. Well-made clocks and fine linens, bronze statues and oil paintings, monogrammed dishes, mahogany shelves, carven dining chairs, unlit chandeliers, silver and gold and crystals – a most respectable home! One with history, and whose inhabitants loved it very much.

They were taken to the kitchen where another elderly woman leaned against her cane. Unlike the madam in pink, whom Hans had immediately singled out as a dependant resident, this silver-haired woman was obviously the mistress of the house and today’s patron.

She wore an airy lime-green dress, a simple yellow cardigan, sensible shoes, and emeralds in her ears and on her neck. The cane in hand supported her unstable gait, and Hans wondered if it pained her a lot. His own grandfather used the cane at times, though with how energetic he was at times it appeared that the thing was for aesthetic or disciplinary purposes rather than moving.

“Good day, Madam,” he said. “I am the wizard Hans. I believe you wished me to deliver foodstuff?”

“Good day to you as well, Master Hans,” said the woman warmly. She smiled. “What a charming wizard you are!” Looking at the oven over her shoulder, she sighed. “You will never believe what misfortune fell upon me: the oven simply refuses to work! Try as Bertha and I might, it will not heat. The pie which you would have delivered sits raw.” She shifted her weight on her stabler foot and regarded him pleasantly. “It is my signature herring pie. I should have liked to have sent it to my granddaughter’s party today – it is her birthday.

“Ah, well! There is nothing to be done. Machines are like people in that they do not get any younger.” Grazing her face with fingertips, she said in a resigned manner how she must send an apology to her granddaughter. Then the mistress added, “I do apologize for summoning you for naught. Bertha. Bertha!”

The woman in pink appeared at the kitchen threshold. “Yes, Ma’am?”

“The young wizard must be paid,” she said. “Do pay him the full price.”

“Madam!” exclaimed Hans, startled. “I cannot accept payment for a job undone!”

“It is alright, young man. The fault lies with me, or more precisely the oven.”

Hans’ discomfort would not fade. In fact, seeing Bertha leave to fetch the madam’s purse agitated him further and he had no idea how to politely decline the payment without insulting his client. Then he spotted a masonry stove to the right of the modern contraption.

Immediately he pointed at it. “Madam, does that oven work?”

“Oh, that old thing? There were days when it was forever burning away, but we have not used it in a good long while.”

“What if I heat it for you? We have an oven just like that back in my village – my mother taught me how to prepare it.”

Madam looked unsure. But Bertha, having overheard the exchange, jumped in support of this plan. The old woman never did like modern contraptions as they broke down at any sign of stress. Electricity was unstable what with power shortages and the constant need of an electrician to inspect the wiring. As far as Bertha was concerned, they had plenty of firewood and an eager youth to help them. Their combined enthusiasm for the notion softened Madam’s initial reluctance, and together they set about preparing the well-worn masonry stove.

Being the youngest and hardiest of the three, Hans ran outside to the shed to gather wood. Sitron accompanied him to repeatedly remind his friend that he might be late to that fancy party if he dilly-dallied too much.

“I cannot accept the money otherwise, Sitron,” scolded the wizard.

The cat sighed in agreement. Hans was too finely bred and well-raised, and frankly Sitron would like to see something besides pancakes in his future.

As the reader will no doubt find unsurprising, the village of Knight’s Roost was behind in technology. Electricity and running water and televisions had come to the denizens, yes, but there was the matter of implementing it into the house. Not every household had running water, not every building had lightbulbs, and while the Westergaards possessed both necessities at their house they never got around to renovating their kitchen to modern standards.

Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Westergaard had read about those fancy electric ovens in magazines and had seen them when visiting friends in the city! They struck them as easier to clean and manage, though between parenting thirteen children and tending to their professional duties, the couple forgot to purchase one. Moreover, Mrs. Westergaard had throughout her marriage cast so many specific spells and enchantments on the oven that it would be a shame to abandon them all in favour of some cheap, factory thing.

There was a grain of magic as well in these old masonry stoves. Stories say household spirits dwelt in them, or that one might hear a prophecy in the crackling wood. It was with the greatest respect that Hans stacked the firewood and pushed around the coals. His skilled way around the oven delighted Madam and Bertha. The former praised his mother for teaching him so correctly, the latter handed him the pie with the widest grin on her cheerful face.

With the pie baking in the fiery oven, Hans took the initiative to help Bertha with household chores too strenuous for an old woman whilst Madam made tea. “You,” said Sitron, sitting on his knee, “are going to be late. It is a kind thing to change the lightbulbs for the mistresses, but you will be late.”

“Calm down,” said Hans, giving him the lightbulb to hold. “At full speed we can reach the club in fifteen minutes.”

“Mama dislikes it when you fly at full speed. What if you fall off?”

“I will not fall,” he said, offended. “We survived those crows, did we not?”

A sharp remark on Sitron’s part was cut by Madam’s emergence from the kitchens with a call for tea. The words were music to their ears; Sitron especially appreciated the milk poured for him. Although it was not equal to the fresh, thick milk given to him at Knight’s Roost, he enjoyed with as much relish for an empty stomach knew no better.

Hans, who had taken an immediate liking to the house, admired the lovely tea set as it took him back to the dining room of his house. The overcast day lit the world in that blue-grey shade; gentle winds brushed the heavy greenery right outside the kitchen windows. Madam (bless her!) spoke as he and the villagers did, emphasizing and silencing letters in a manner odd to younger ears.

“Ah! Your mother is Mrs. Johannes Hammersmed’s daughter?” exclaimed Madam as Hans opened himself up to her. “Is she the elder or the younger girl?”

“The elder, Madam,” answered Hans, who perked up at the recognition. “Are you acquainted with my grandmother?”

“Of course, I am!” The woman smiled. “Mrs. Hammersmed – then known to me as Miss Maria Randrup – and I were schoolfellows! We were the best of friends, you know, though we have seen each other rarely since our respective marriages. It is tricky for women to find each other once we are wed: we take the names of our husbands and busy ourselves with wifely duties. Shortly after graduation, your grandfather came like a storm to sweep dearest Maria off her feet and take her away to his own hearth. My marriage meanwhile led me to Corona City, where I still live today.” She bit into a biscuit, hummed, and added, “I must admit that I am a little surprised that Maria let her firstborn daughter wed a country gentleman. Your grandfather is a fancy man if I remember correctly, and Maria always loved urban revelries.”

“You are not wrong, Madam,” said Hans. “My mother met my father on her year abroad when she landed in our village.” He blushed. “She liked him so much that when he went after her six years later, she gave him her hand in marriage in a heartbeat and practically browbeat Grandfather to give his blessing. They were wed within six months.”

“That is what I like to hear!” Madam laughed. “A swift, decisive courtship with a wedding fast at its wake is the best thing in the world. My late husband took me to wife two months after meeting me and we have been happier for it, and I’ve already told you how quickly your grandparents were to bind themselves to each other. Their union is by all accounts a joyous one, I hear.”

“Oh, yes!” Hans clapped his hands. “Grandfather and Grandmama are as fancy and happy as you remember them, and I must admit—” here he coloured deeper— “that I may have inherited more of their sensibilities that those of my paternity. I have received and accepted an invitation to a party at six o’clock today – it shall be the first I attend in the city.”

Madam started. “Six o’clock?” she repeated anxiously. “Will you make it on time?”

“I will!” Hans glanced at the ticking hands. “My destination is about fifteen minutes away – we have time yet.”

Madam gasped. “Oh, dear! I am afraid to tell you that that thing runs ten minutes slow!”

Now it was his turn to gasp. He let the porcelain cup clink unceremoniously against the saucer and sprang to his feet, taut at the revelations. “What am I to do?”

“Check the pie; it ought to be ready!”

The Anemoi themselves would have envied this young boy had they seen the speed with which he scrambled up the counter. Donning quilted oven mittens, Hans reached inside the hot cavern and pulled out the lovely dish within which was beautifully baked pie, golden and fluffy with a pastry fish atop it. The women joined him at that moment with a basket and lid. They shut it, carefully packed it, and Bertha ran with a maiden’s zeal as she harried the wizard to make haste. She grabbed the broom and opened the door, yelling, “Hurry! Hurry!” as her mistress paid the boy for his service.

As if to reflect the sudden change in the wizard’s disposition, the weather had shed its merry garments of sunshine in exchange for a gown of ominous, stormy thunders. Sitron’s whiskers trembled, foretelling a storm. “Get off my shoulder,” said Hans quickly as the sky burst into tears. “I need to take off my waistcoat.”

“Why?” he demanded. “You cannot be hot in this weather.”

“I’ll cover the pie with it,” explained he snappishly. “Press yourself between my chest and the basket – I won’t have you catch a cold.”

The rain soon fell in sheets rather than droplets. Hans shivered and trembled and shook. Sitron whined in sympathy, trying to provide him with as much heat as he could exude. Their flight reached speeds deemed reckless by even the witches of storms.

Still, they made haste. Thunder rumbled in the distance; lightning burst somewhere, casting a broken light over the city; the dreadful wind and rain wailed, wept like a widow. Flying through the roiling clouds was no different to sailing on the open sea with a raft for a ship – gloomy infinity was all the eyes could see.

Hans gritted his teeth and shielded his eyes with the palm of his hand, though that did precious little to improve his vision beneath the sobbing sky. The wind beat at him with a drunkard’s ferocity, and Hans nearly dropped Sitron as he shuffled to open the lid covering the pie. He was careful to not drench it; he just needed a bit of crumbs to cast a spell.

Inanimate objects, though inherently soulless, absorbed the feelings and nature of their makers and treasurers. Madam had baked this wonderful pie with so much love for her granddaughter that Hans had no issues drawing out that love to be his guiding light.

The wet crumbs on his fingertips glowed a faint golden-pink light that brightened and – like a compass – pointed eastward. Hans followed the narrow beam through the grey, eventually making out a wealthy neighbourhood. He stretched his legs outwards, plummeted fifteen metres, and then gathered them as he flew like an arrow towards a handsome stone manor.

Cars were parked on the driveway; lights shimmered through the windows; jazzy music forced its way through the walls with every beat of a drum or pluck of a string. Hans landed roughly on the concrete and ran up to the doorstep (which, while different, was just as marvellous as Madam’s home) to push on the doorbell.

How was one to appear respectable when drenched? That was a question racing through Hans’ mind as he ruffled his hair in an attempt unstick off his forehead. There were spells to dry oneself – very useful to witchmen trudging along swamps to slay beasts – but before he could even consider performing one, the door swung open by a very pretty girl his age.

She greeted him with a smile which Hans eagerly reciprocated, though it turned out to be a remnant of whatever conversation she had exited to answer him. Her expression soured a bit upon sizing him up, and she asked him his business at the house.

“This package is addressed to you, Miss.”

“Why is it wet?” she asked, much to his bafflement.

“Oh, I was caught in the rain,” explained Hans, extending the basket to her. “I assure you that the pie is still warm.”

The girl relieved him of the package and frowned. “I’ve told her not to send it to me this year.” A voice cried out from somewhere inside the house wanting to know who was at the door. “My grandma sent me that pie again!”

Hans was struck by the girl’s exasperation. “Uh-Excuse me,” he said, fumbling for his notebook, “I need you to place your signature here. Proof of delivery, you understand.”

“I cannot stand this stupid pie,” said the girl sharply to herself, haphazardly signing her name on the damp pages.

Then she slammed the door shut.

Drops of rainwater slid down his red hair, landing on his sloping shoulders and cheeks, pooling at his feet. Hans stared at where the girl had stood and, gradually, a numbness spread through his chilled limbs from his chest.

“It is hard to imagine that she is of the same blood as Madam,” said Sitron after a minute’s pause. “They say blood will always tell, but I feel that in this case it ought to scream to give us the slightest hint.”

“It is not our place to judge other families.” Hans turned his back to the house. Lethargy, or rather indifference borne out of something blue marked his movements as they lifted off the ground. Sitron disliked this air around his best friend, though he knew not how to cast it aside.

Their flight to the bakery was as slow as their delivery was swift. Were it not for his shivering, the young wizard could have passed for a statue what with his sternness and well-crafted composure. Sitron peeked at the pocket watch and, to his great dismay, saw that the hour was quarter past six. “We will not be attending the party, I suppose?”

“No,” said Hans softly. “We cannot.”

***

Flynn had arrived at the bakery at exactly six o’clock. His punctuality was not unnoticed by the bakers, who knew him to come and go as he liked with no regard for timeliness. Rapunzel bid him farewell as she ran off to fetch her schoolfriend. “Cass and I will wait for you by the windows,” she had said to him before leaving.

He had washed and ironed the nicest suit he owned. Hans might dress in old waistcoats and mended trousers, but his fastidious neatness always gave him a prim appearance that Flynn wanted to emulate tonight. A landowner’s son (who only recently began to slightly warm up to him) was sure to have the judgmental eye worthy of a jeweller. Peridots were the poor man’s emeralds, though truth be told Flynn wondered if he would even match the worth of that pale green stone.

The clouds shed enough tears to flood a dried river, he reckoned. Glancing at the cheap watch around his wrist, Flynn saw that it was already quarter past six. The rains showed no sign of easing, and neither did he spot a small blurry dot of red he had come to associate with the wizard.

Having openly studied how Hans flew depending on the weather and his fancy, he boasted some knowledge on this matter. On sun-filled days the wizard was in the habit of soaring alongside birds by the harbour; windy days bound him closer to the heavy earth as Hans had admitted to a healthy fear of falling instilled into him by his mother; and overcast skies promised his disappearance into the heavens as he broke through the clouds to see what no mortal had seen without an airplane and a trunk full of equipment.

Flynn had never seen him fly on rainy days, let alone through storms.

The wristwatch ticked.

It was half past.

Rapunzel waited for him, too.

A wistful sigh was his quiet response to Mr. Frederic’s sympathetic glance. The latter had gotten worried for the boy as well – the rainstorm was predicted to get worse – and he pitied this otherwise irritating child for waiting and waiting outside the empty bakery.

“I’ll walk Rapunzel home afterwards,” said Flynn quietly. He opened the black umbrella and walked past the baker, hand in his pocket and gaze fixed on the broken cobblestones.

The white of his suit stood out plain to Sitron’s feline eyes. Lifting his dark paw, he pointed at their friend and said, “Mr. Rider is here. We could catch up to him should you wish it.”

Hans’ countenance crumpled. “And what will I wear, my dear? The rest of my clothes are black and white – I will look like a waiter at that party, and then Rapunzel and Flynn’s friends will judge me poorly for it.” He lifted a strand of crimson off his head. “I don’t want people to see me when I’m wet as a dog and incapable of smiling.”

“Well, you mustn’t be so upset about it,” said Sitron. “Miss Rapunzel would not let them mistreat you.”

“I’m not upset!” Hans paused, reining his anger to not lash out at his best friend. “My head hurts. And I am cold. That’s it.”

Sitron spoken no further. He could tell by the strained voice that his friend would rather not converse.

They landed at the foot of the stairs, and Hans all but dragged his feet to the second floor where upon entering the attic he unceremoniously stripped himself of the soaking clothes, pat-dried his trembling form, and slipping into a winter nightshirt buried himself beneath the blanket.

Would that Sitron could comfort him properly, or at the very least make him something warm to eat or drink; but the knowledge of his friend’s ill disposition barred him from the former, and the lack of hands prevented the latter.

Thus, he did the best he could under these dire circumstances. Curling beneath Hans’ chin to keep his throat warm, Sitron hummed the sweetest lullaby he knew and with his tail wiped glassy tears rolling down the pale curve of the feverish cheeks.

Thunder cracked, lightning flashed, and Hans clutched him tightly like he did when he was smaller and terrified of stormy nights.

“It’ll be alright,” promised Sitron. “Everything will be fine in the morning. The world is always fine in the morning.”

Chapter Text

"High in the halls of the kings who are gone
Jenny would dance with her ghosts
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found
And the ones who had loved her the most.

The ones who’d been gone for so very long
She couldn’t remember their names
They spun her around on the damp old stones
Spun away all her sorrow and pain.

And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave."

GRRM; Florence and the Machine

Come fair, fine morning, Rapunzel and Flynn sat at the breakfast table wondering aloud why their friend had not shown up to the party. He always spoke with such pleasure about social gatherings – he proudly flaunted his good manners and boasted how many dancing shoes he went through a season – so they had every reason to expectation of his joining them after his deliveries.

“Maybe he doesn’t like you,” was what Cassandra had said to him last night. Never was there a more stupid statement than that! Flynn saw how the wizard coloured at the invitation, saw how he held it in his hands. Hans would have come to the party regardless of whether he liked him or not; if anything, he would have attended solely to nit-pick Flynn’s clothes and behaviour and speech.

So, eating porridge cooked by Madam Arianna, the young man grumbled to Rapunzel whose expression, while less grim, was just as confused.

Suddenly there was a repetitive scratching noise from the windows. Both children turned their heads and saw a calico cat pawing at the brass knob, meowing angrily as it refused to open. Rapunzel exchanged a look with Flynn. The cat never left the wizard’s side nor was he ever this agitated. She rose from her seat, opened the window, and caught the cat as it barrelled onto the floor.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is something the matter with Hans?”

Sitron nodded frantically, tugging at the hem of her lilac dress. What choice had they but to follow him? They thundered down the stairs, flew past Mr. Frederic, ran outside, took the stairs to the little room two steps at a time and burst like mafia men into the shadowy room.

In the far edge of the flat, wrapped up in a blanket lay what appeared to be the most miserable boy in Corona City. Hans Westergaard as stated in previous chapters was a pretty boy with porcelain-pale skin, bright sea-green eyes, and sharp features that gave him a near-perpetual air of mischievous delight. His good appearances had played a cruel trick on him today by further highlighting his ill health: the fever which took hold of him was all the more obvious on pale skin, the brightness of his eyes glazed over with proof of a poor night’s rest, and in place of his regular smirk was a countenance befit a soldier bidding farewell to his lady love.

Hans coughed into the palm of his hand. His tiredness soon gained an annoyed flavour upon seeing whom his cat brought to him. “I asked for Madam Arianna,” he whispered.

“I could not find Madam,” said Sitron. “As the eldest daughter of the house, Miss Rapunzel takes on the role of mistress when her mama is unavailable.”

“Oh, don’t you lecture me on this,” chastised Hans, whose want of manners in everyone was unrivalled.

“Well,” drawled Flynn Rider, looming over him as Rapunzel let in fresh air, “well, well, well. You, sir, are ill.”

“Am I now? And here I thought I was feverish because my health was so robust.”

His dry wit ignored, Flynn pressed a hand over his forehead and whistled loudly. “Blondie, you might want to call your mom – he’s hotter than a bonfire.”

“Is he?” Now Rapunzel repeated the gesture and whistled too. “Gosh, he is! What happened to you last night?”

“It’s irrelevant,” said Hans quickly.

Flynn, unsatisfied, decided to do what he did best: needle the poor wizard. “Your eyes are puffy.”

Hans, lips drawn tightly, dove deeper under his blanket. Unfortunately for him, the movement drew Rapunzel’s attention to him and she noticed that it was damp. Without a moment’s consideration, she ripped it off him and – before he could start hollering his indignation – immediately promised to bring him another. “You won’t recover if you lay in damp bedsheets and a damper pillow,” she said. “Flynn can keep you company whilst I get you dry linens.”

There was no arguing with her as she shot out of the room with the quickness of a sparrow. Under normal circumstances, Hans would have much preferred Rapunzel’s companionship over Flynn’s; but as he was in his nightshirt, he felt it indecent and embarrassing to be around her and was immensely glad to see her back. Knowing this was a temporary state of affairs, he stumbled off the mattress and reached for his day clothes. A pair of black trousers and a white shirt would do well for the day (never mind that he disdained the outfit a mere twenty-four hours ago). There was no need for a waistcoat as the guests he had were familiar. Yet as he was about to ask Flynn to hide his eyes Hans found himself roughly manhandled back on to the bed.

“Dude, you’re sick!” Flynn folded his arms, chest leaned forward to intimidate the wizard into settling down. “What do you think you’re going to do dressed like a waiter? Cough on our teacups and infect us too?”

“What else am I to do?” demanded Hans, cheeks florid and temper rising. He pushed Flynn with the tip of his index finger. “Sit around in my nightshirt with Rapunzel hovering around me? I am not so ill as to excuse this state of undress!”

“Oh my God, you are ridiculous!” Flynn shoved him back onto the bed. “I’ll have Rapunzel give me the blankets so we can bundle you up and only then will I let her come see you, okay?” He rapidly shook his head and held out two open palms. “Actually, I don’t need your input; we’re doing this my way.”

Hans, frustrated, coloured redder than a robin redbreast and it is our opinion that this might have had nothing to do with his fever. “You’re a blackguard!”

“That’s new,” said Flynn sardonically. “I’m usually called a ‘pest’ or a ‘public nuisance’. What other fun obsolete words do you have for me?”

Shortly after their initial introduction, Flynn realised that the best way to taunt Hans was to point out his old-fashioned manners. No thirteen-year-old, countryside stock or urban, wants to be associated with outdated customs. Although children like Hans would grow up to happily represent their heritage and families, even taking pride in the respectable age of their houses, at his current age this angered him like nothing else.

Moreover, Hans spoke with the heightened pronunciation which had been dead in cities for thirty years. Besides his accent, his stubborn insistence on calling cards and using proper addresses when talking to others, his old waistcoats, his scented oils, and his sharp dislike of Rapunzel popping by unannounced (heavens’ forbid she saw him in an undershirt and slippers) were to Flynn what neon signs were to casinos.

Naturally, making fun of his little quirks and manners was incredibly easy.

It also, however, made it easy to forget that Hans was not simply a stuffy young man who reads too much but also a sensitive homesick wizard.

A hairbrush rose from the table and cracked against the ceiling with a loud thud, falling sharply onto Flynn’s head.

“Hey!” he exclaimed. “That’s unfair!”

Hans shrugged and hid his face. Flynn then noticed how his hands clenched at the fabric of his nightshirt. Soon the cat jumped onto his lap, rubbing its face against those rapidly whitening knuckles. While the elder boy had happily nursed a grudge since the moment he realised he was stood up, only now did he truly consider why his junior never came and why he was so feverish. 

One question remained: why was he upset?

Seeing as that he had already bothered Hans, Flynn decided to be frank and asked him directly. This boldness took the former aback if only because the latter was fully serious. “It’s nothing,” he said.

“Do you want to know what I heard when you said that?” Flynn leaned back. “I heard you say, ‘It’s everything’.”

“I cannot help it if you put words in my mouth.”

Flynn folded his arms and set a foot atop a chair, his chest close to the thigh. “You had two deliveries, right? And you fly like a shot when you want to.” The broom by the door was whole, which ruled out an accident. “Did you have a bad client?”

“My client was the best of women,” said Hans, defensive. He furrowed his brows. Bursts of anger strengthened his headache. “The girl to whom I delivered the package was her granddaughter and she was—I have a hard time believing they are related by blood.” He rubbed at his arms. “Truth be told, exchanging a few words with her was enough to put me out of spirits.”

“So you flew in the rain?”

Hans nodded.

“And was I gone by the time you returned?”

Hans stared past him, eyes glazed over from the fever. It was difficult for him to remember the details of yesterday. Tears were shed as the sky thundered and sobbed. Sitron kept his throat warm and in the middle of the night tried to tempt him into making a cup of tea, though Hans distinctly recalled how he refused and curled tighter into himself.

Worse, it embarrassed him to admit that he had looked forward to the party. The style with which Flynn invited him had carried him through the flights of stairs, and he had excitedly imagined what kind of music would have played, what dances danced.

And then he saw Flynn Rider standing in a handsome white suit that – while too big for his frame – complimented his colouring. How was he to appear in front of him drenched like a Dickensian orphan? Hans would sooner succumb to fever than confront that shame!

So, he said, “Yes. You were gone.”

Unbeknownst to him, Flynn would not have cared much if Hans did land by his side in that state. Flynn would’ve waited for his friend to dry himself and put on a fresh set of clothes before sharing his umbrella.

“That’s a shame.” Flynn turned the chair and sat with the back of it in the front like a hooligan. “Worse still is that you’re ill.” He frowned, then a glimmer shone on his face. “Hey, do you want to play a prank on that girl?”

“…What?”

“That girl who upset you,” clarified Flynn. “We could clear an afternoon and dupe her for her rudeness.”

While the offer beguiled him, Hans clearly pictured his mother chasing with him a book on ethics, yelling how he had no right to do that to any customers no matter how much he disliked them. But having already left Flynn hanging, the young wizard was surprised by his desire to rectify that with some activity and perhaps this was just it.

Before he could answer, Rapunzel entered the room with clean linens in her arms. Her mother was fast behind her. Madam Arianna rushed to Hans as fast as she could with that round belly, hand on his forehead and worry on her face.

“Oh, dear!” She fussed over him, sizing him up as if a fever could maim him, as her daughter and Flynn covered the bed. “I’m not surprised that you’re ill with the storm that raged. I guess I had hoped your magic would have protected you.”

Hans coughed and smiled. “Had I your daughter’s powers then perhaps.”

“Can I fix you with it?” asked Rapunzel, reaching to loosen her hair.

“Darling, don’t use the word ‘fix’,” chided her mother.

“I’m not sure if your hair will work on an internal ailment,” said Hans. “I mean, where would we place the hair?”

“We could—”

“There will be no experimenting,” said Madam Arianna, stern. She and her husband had banned their daughter from singing the incantation till they have an opportunity to meet and consult with Mrs. Westergaard about it properly. She ushered the wizard back into his bed (where Hans, finally covered, relaxed) when another surprise startled the guests.

Through the open window flew in with a harsh flap of wings an eagle. It was massive with powerful wings and large beak; a loud crow heralded its landing. On the floor it sat, paying no mind to the shouting locals who rapidly moved to hide behind the dresser.

The wizard smiled and laughed. “Good morning!” he exclaimed. “Have you come all this way from home?”

The eagle cawed in affirmation. In her claws she carried a large wooden box address to him. Spreading her wings once more, she pushed off the ground, set the package on the table, and settled comfortably on the patient’s lap.

“You know it?” demanded Rapunzel, clutching fiercely at Madam Arianna’s skirt.

“Of course, I do!” Hans scratched the chin of the tired eagle. “This is Heloise.”

Flynn gaped at him. “Care to elaborate?” he shrieked, sharp and high-pitched.

“Heloise is my mother’s familiar,” answered Hans flatly. “She brought me a package it seems. Madam, would you be so kind as to open it? I would do it myself, but I would hate to move with her on my lap. Poor miss had a long journey.”

The eagle cooed softly, ruffling its feathers. It was a strange sight. Eagles generally avoided cities, flying high above them as they soared from one mountain peak to another. To see a specimen this close was absurd, and to see it cuddling with a feverish child more so. Still, Hans claimed it belonged to his mother and Madam Arianna would not judge the woman for her pets when her own daughter was saving up coin to buy a chameleon.

She moved carefully to the table – anxious not to set off the eagle – and started to pry open the lid of the box. “Your mother’s familiars are eagles?” she asked. “I imagined a witch would have a cat or a raven.”

“It is not atypical for her family,” said Hans, beckoning Rapunzel to come greet Heloise. “They are crazy for hawking. Grandmama especially loves to hunt with him. Perhaps it will please you to know that my brother Josef has raven familiars.” He tilted his head. “What is in the box?”

“A world of good!” Madam Arianna eagerly examined each jar as she lined them up like soldiers on the table. “Your mother had sent you all sorts of wonderful things that will quicken your recovery: cherry jam, pickled vegetables, honey, raspberry tea, and…a cloak?”

Flynn, who had come to stand by her, stuck his hand into the box and scrolled open a narrow slip of pink paper. “‘My dearest son,’” he read aloud, “‘Klaus informed us that you will catch a cold from flying idly in the rain. Here is a cloak for you to keep warm and dry in the future. Remember to drink lots of tea, stay warm, and fly responsibly. Your loving Papa.’” He paused. “Which one was Klaus again?”

“He is the eldest son.”

“And why does he know that you caught a cold? You don’t have a telephone here and Sitron is a cat. Last I checked, he could not fly.”

“That would be because Klaus is an oneiromancer,” said Hans. At the blank expression on his and Rapunzel’s faces, he added, “He can see the past and the future in his dreams.”

Rapunzel lit up at once; she had heard Hans speak of his witchman brother and the brewer of potions, but never about an oneiromancer! She carefully greeted Heloise with a pat on the head and sat on the bed to ask him details of this occult art.

“Leave him be, Rapunzel,” said Madam Arianna. “What Hans needs now is tea and porridge, not conversation. You can come up to him once I’ve fed and medicated him.”

“It really is no problem, Madam—”

“You’re burning up, young man,” she said decisively. “They can mind the shop while you rest, and once the fever breaks I shall happily let them speak with you all evening. Besides,” she eyed the eagle nervously, “Heloise will want some peace and quiet. Let’s give it to her.”

***

Rain fell again that evening in a steady patter. The cold, damp and sickly, seeped through the wooden walls of his flat like a poisonous flower pushing through the soil. Hans’ fever came in powerful waves – it nearly killed him to leave the bed to toss coal into the oven and lighting it with a short spell earned him a sharp migraine. Back in Knight’s Roost, Mrs. Westergaard refused to light hearths till the cold could no longer be combatted with cardigans and sweaters. She felt the wrong kind of decadent for wasting fuel outside of the winter months (and even then persuasion was required), though her husband always reassured her that the forest was plentiful. “If the worst came to pass,” Mr. Westergaard would say, “there are other things we can feed to the flames.”

“Erik, have you no shame?” she would snap. “We are the best, most consequential family in the village. The Gyldenpalms might have a house as fine as ours but their origins are low.” She rolled her eyes, knuckles whitening as her clutch on the broom strengthened. “Let there never be a day when I am forced to burn straw and hay in front of company while Mrs. Gyldenpalm has coal and wood in her hearth, you hear me?”

Mr. Westergaard would nod his head and, out of consideration for his wife, would shut down his sons’ complaints and force them to put on another layer of wool. Frugality, however, reached its limits when whilst pregnant with their twelfth his missus tricked a fire demon into signing a contract beneficial solely to her. The creature was bound to the main hearth of the house that Hans so fondly remembered in his feverish daze. Having been born five years too late, he never had the opportunity to be acquainted with the creature though his brothers regaled him with stories of it. The fire demon was called Calcifer; he ate eggshells Mrs. Westergaard cracked open every morning for breakfast and cut down fuel expenditures by more than half.

It was by all accounts very useful and very annoying. Mr. Westergaard especially distrusted the creature. Specifically its demonic nature combined with his refusal to alarm the house should another of his kind break through the protective charms cast by his wife. Moreover, he disliked the occasional visits from some young wizard wishing to relieve them of the demon.

That young man stood out well in his memory. Clad in tight high-waisted trousers and a loose shirt with billowy sleeves, Mr. Westergaard never liked being host to the man. It was one thing to be eccentrically dressed – some of his own sons had…phases of extraordinary fashion, God bless them – but he could not approve of his behaviour at the time, particularly surrounding that of his relationship to a silver-haired girl. Not only were they man and woman sharing quarters without a respectable housekeeper for propriety’s sake (he had NOT seen a ring around Miss Hatter’s finger then), but he had heard of Mr. Pendragon’s ‘courtship’ to her and nearly went grey. Certainly, Mr. Westergaard had brought his wife hardships in one form or another but at least he never had his house collapse upon her due to magical mishaps. Neither did he throw a fit when his hair was unfortunately altered by grubby little hands. 

Thus, when his wife was delivered of their lastborn Mr. Westergaard had persuaded her to release the demon in honour of the joyous occasion. As far as the family knew, the sassy little creature currently resided with Mr. and Mrs. Pendragon in their moving castle.

Hans had no fire demons at his flat. He also lacked the firewood to keep the stove burning for too long. As he stirred the coal around with a cast-iron pan, he made a note to write to his parents to send him warmer clothes once the true cold came. Then he yawned, set the pan on the table, and crawled back beneath the blankets to sleep.

Dreams often were peaceful affairs for the young wizard. It was the land of wonders and these days it brought him back home to his parents and brothers, to the rolling fields around the village, to the smiles of friendly neighbours who’d known him since his birth. He smelled the cinnamon from the kitchens and felt the salty seaside breeze brush through his hair with long fingers. Dreams were pleasant, lovely.

But heavy storms roiled above the Garden of Eden too.

On the outskirts of the village, high atop a green hill, stood a ruined castle. Legends claim it had belonged to a long-dead knightly family whose existence gave Knight’s Roost its noble name. Children played atop the mossy stones; young lovers sought privacy behind its broken walls; the elderly went to the crumbling halls to reminisce of days long gone.

Hans was fond of that castle. His father sometimes took him there to conduct lessons among the ruins when the weather was fine. The castle was beautiful beneath the shining sun, but Hans loved it best at misty dawns. The hour belonged to ghosts. Hans liked to imagine that there, in the midst of shattered, weather-beaten stones, dead knights and their ladies spun round and round in graceful dances, separated only by a thin veil of morning dew and pale blue light.

It was there he found himself that night. A mossy stone beneath his bare feet, he watched dark clouds brew over the village. Lit windows were golden stars twinkling in the distance; black smoky ribbons rose from the chimneys of house great and small; dogs barked wildly as the winds swept through stormgrass like a comb through hair. 

His heart ached grievously. Within four-and-twenty hours Hans had grown tired of Corona City. Not all clients were courteous with their outrageous demands. They had outlandish expectations of his broom. And that girl – Madam’s granddaughter – who regarded him with disdain and sneered at the pie; that girl, unappreciative of the birthday present had revelled in a house secured by the efforts of her grandmother. Hans had been raised with the firm belief of continuity: the blessings and comforts he enjoyed were the fruits of the seeds sown by his forefathers, which meant that whether he liked the strange presents and wet kisses bestowed upon him by his grandparents was irrelevant. They had toiled for his comfort and he had no right to be ungrateful or disrespectful.

Rapunzel and Flynn unnerved him on occasion as well. Rapunzel was a sweet, clever girl but her questions were endless. Additionally – and this was more his issue than hers – Hans was caught off-guard by her openness. Village girls and he had an innate understanding that once they were a bit older, it will be inappropriate for them to climb trees and swim in the lake together without the all-knowing eye of chaperones in the form of their mothers. That was life. His brothers took young misses to the tearoom, danced with them at balls, and the misses in return would give them fruit preserves and would never ever ever barge into their bedrooms whilst they were indisposed and rip the sheets off them.

And Flynn was…well. Petty as it was, Hans was a little envious of him. He had many friends and looked nice in jeans and had fun stories taken from his own life rather than from books, where the wizard spent a good chunk of his time there. From the way Flynn’s smile curved at the sight of the broom, Hans very quickly deduced that his natural skills – playing the violin, riding horses, speaking French – were nothing to the other boy compared to wizardry.

Truth be told, he did not want to be friends with someone who’d ignore him had he been born without a predisposition to magic.

Hans took a deep breath and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The air was hot, heavy, damp. No doubt the sky wanted to cry and let out all its unshed tears. Yet like a stubborn child it refused to do so and instead thickened the air till the shirt on his back stuck uncomfortably to his skin. Hans, irritated, jumped down the stone and kicked the jagged rocks which lay scattered on the tall, uncut grass. Leaping over the uneven walls, he heard them clatter against stones or land softly with a thump on soft earth.

Then, to his utter surprise, he heard a sharp yelp of pain.

Hans drew in a worried breath and quickly pulled himself up the ramparts. Should the visitor be troublesome, he could hop to the other side of the wall and run to safety in the village green – the people of Knight’s Roost will never stand for hooliganism in their village.

But danger was the last word he would use to describe the person whom he saw.

“Klaus!” he shouted, overjoyed.

An exceptionally tall, broad-shouldered young man rubbed sorely at the top of his head, hissing softly. The curls of his hair were the exact shade like Mrs. Westergaard’s own chestnut tresses, his nose remarkably resembled Mr. Westergaard’s, and his eyes were the grey of the North Sea on overcast days.

This young man was the eldest son and heir of the proud Westergaard parents. Klaus Westergaard was his name and tender gentleness was his nature. Sixteen years Hans’ senior, he was a few steps’ short of becoming a saint in his little brother’s mind. Slow to anger, quick to smile, Klaus had a kind word for everyone and always sounded so very happy whenever Hans called him on the phone or wrote him a letter. “Oh, my angel!” he would say, as if there was no one else on God’s green earth with whom he would rather speak.

After a horrible day and horrendous night, Hans burst with joy and ran towards his dearest, darling, most beloved eldest brother. Klaus’ curls fought valiantly against the humidity; even more striking was the too-loose sweater he wore. It was knitted by their brother Emil – he was a talented hobbyist tailor and made a lot of clothes for his family, though they varied wildly in quality; Klaus was the only brother loyal enough to wear everything given to him in public. Hans felt the wool itch against his forearms as he wrapped his arms around the sturdy waist. Strong arms reciprocated the gesture and Hans nearly wept when Klaus lifted him up and chastised him for flying in the rain.

“Did Mother not teach you anything?” he demanded, worry lacing his voice. “Did I not teach you anything? Chills can kill, you reckless boy!” Yet despite himself, his hug tightened and he carried his brother to a large smooth stone. Setting him on the ground, he ruffled his hair and sat on the grey surface, beckoning the child to join him. “I could hardly sleep,” he said as he went about the motions, “after seeing that prophetic dream where you practically settled your mind on dying like a dog in the bitter rain.”

“I’m hardy!” defended Hans.

Klaus started with an incredulous expression marring his face. “No,” he said. “No, you are not. You’re prone to suffering twice as much in the cold compared to Maron and you are thirteen years old. What would we have done if your fever had not broken? None of us want you ill in a city far away from home and hearth. I’ve read your letters addressed to Mother and Father – wonderful as it that Miss Rapunzel has magical hair, I highly doubt it can cure an internal ailment.

“You don’t know that,” said Hans smartly. “There were no peer-reviewed studies published on Rapunzel’s hair.”

“Miss Rapunzel, Hansel,” corrected his brother. “You are her mother’s tenant. Be respectful.”

“They’re different here, Klaus! Madam Arianna does not even want to call her ‘madam’. She says ‘Arianna’ will do just fine.”

Had it been a brother like Jules or Harald then Hans would have been warned thrice over keeping up with his proper addresses; Klaus was as startled as any Westergaard would have been to hear such words, but his response was an awkward, “Well, I pray to God you treated that as a recommendation rather than a command?”

“Of course.” Hans folded his arms. “Not a savage, am I?”

“I don’t know, darling,” said Klaus with real agitation in his demeanour. “Did you not unnecessarily linger in the wind and rain?”

“Klaus!”

True to his nature, Klaus pounced on the chance to lecture his baby brother on the evils of chills and how stupid it was of him to fly in the rain and how many ways a man could die from such ventures. “Fevers are no laughing matter!” he said multiple times. This would normally aggravate the young wizard, who disliked it when he was told what to do in such a tone. Pridefulness was the start of his nature and in the past he had gotten into silly spats ‘out of principle’ (the term vanity might be better suited according to some people), but for once he was not bothered by the rinsing – homesickness was a powerful soother.

Regardless, it would not have mattered much had he minded since complaints of every sort vanished once Klaus, who smelled of old books and lavender and ink from their father’s study, sighed, cupped his cheek, and said with a sigh, “Have you been well, Hansel?”

The family nickname alongside the voice, warm and familiar like a scruffy childhood blanket, tugged at the heartstring and to the beat of the crashing waves Hans told his brother everything that had happened to him. Upon finishing, Klaus hummed knowingly in that soft manner of his and said, “You know, Father did wonder why you had not further expanded on the character of that Flynn fellow. And even now you seem to edit him out of your speech. Is everything alright between you two? Has he been unkind?”

“The opposite!” despaired Hans. “He had been too kind to me as of late and I feel horrible for it. Life was so much easier when he was simply a pest – a chatty, flamboyant pest – instead of a punctual, caring youth.” He dug nails through his trousers, straight into the flesh. “I…I don’t know how to change my attitude without it being odd. Goodness, I am so used to being smart with him that when our conversations are jovial I can just feel a ‘well, actually’ amassing on the tip of my tongue.”

“Oh, goodness gracious!” laughed Klaus, further embarrassing his brother. “Is that what got you all worked up, darling?”

“This is serious!”

“It is, it is, I do not dispute it whatsoever,” said the elder, whose voice betrayed him. He pulled his brother into a tight hug, ignoring the sharp yelp of discomfort. “Oh, I just did not expect these troubles of a creature as gregarious as you. You had always liked and been friendly to everyone that truthfully I believed you to be above snappishness towards strangers.”

“Yes, well, Flynn Rider sometimes wears ripped jeans,” said Hans self-righteously, unaware that those trousers worn by the young hooligan were ripped not by design but by use. “Pardon me for falling victim to years of Papa’s indoctrination.”

Klaus regarded him warmly. The strengthening wind whipped at their clothes, their faces, and he suggested that they go inside the house for tea. Hans, though loath to leave the ruins, agreed without a fight because he had missed his brother and would rather be with him than in the broken castle (even if the gloomy weather were perfect for playing knights).

Springing to his feet in preparation to make down the hill, Hans was startled greatly when in a span of single blink he found himself in the kitchen of the house. There the gleaming steel kettle boiled on the counter, steam rising in light puffs; on the wall opposite the icebox hung a large photo portrait of their family dressed up nicely before attending a fancy ball thrown by herbologists; the aroma of chocolate filled the air, and Hans noticed his brother – now clad in a better-tailored cardigan – reaching for blue porcelain cups belonging to their mother.

Into them he poured thick hot chocolate and cold cream which he placed on the table. “Sit,” said Klaus. “I doubt the city folk make chocolate as fine as us. They are too fast-paced – it must be why they drink that horrible powdery stuff.” He tightened his smile. “I never wish to insult others for their tastes, but theirs frankly does not taste of chocolate.”

“Where are Mama and Papa?” Hans kept swivelling his head to the door in case his parents appeared. “Are they not home?”

“They are calling on Mr. and Mrs. Lund,” said Klaus, pushing his brother’s chair closer to the table as he went to sit himself. “Now,” he smiled, “tell me about Flynn Rider properly. I will not be able to advise you otherwise; and you want to make amends for hostile behaviour, yes?”

“It is the right thing to do,” said Hans, unwilling to admit that maybe he was more than flattered by that hooligan’s attentiveness and concern and would like to be proper friends with him. “Where should I start?”

Klaus smiled. “The beginning is a very good place to start.”

Chapter Text

“Time, wondrous time
Gave me the blues and then purple-pink skies;
And it’s cool
Baby, with me
And isn’t it just so pretty to think
All along there was some
Invisible string
Tying you to me?”

Taylor Swift.

“How is he? Is he well?”

“Erik, will you stop looming over him? He’ll wake up when he wakes up.”

“Several hours have passed!”

“Hush!”

Atop a scruffy old sofa lay a young man, drowsy and startled, rising to the bickering of his parents. The grandfather clock ticked in the background; wood crackled in the oven and the smell of bread hung in the air; distant shrieks of joy drowned out the dying chirps of birds as the golden sun set into the sea, painting the sky orange. Rolling his shoulders, the young man sensed that despite herself, Mrs. Westergaard too burst at the seams wanting to know what he had seen in his dreams.

This young man was called Klaus Westergaard – the firstborn son of the family. His father’s heir, Klaus had also inherited the old blood from his maternity. More, he boasted the rare gift of oneiromancy. It was prestigious, yes, though he wished he had something less cumbersome as it hurt his head to sleep for long hours and the very nature of the craft demanded it of him.

Rubbing his face, he glanced up at his parents. Mr. Westergaard smiled at him, the orange light drawing out the warmth out of the loose auburn locks, and Mrs. Westergaard leaned into her husband, cheeks ruddy from running after a household spirit earlier. Behind him, flapping her massive wings, was the eagle Henrietta with a lilac ribbon in her beak. She landed onto his lap with a swoosh, ruffling her feathers against his chest.

“Good evening,” said Klaus to his parents. “Where should I start?”

“At the beginning, of course!” said his mother, seating herself on an armchair. Mr. Westergaard moved to stand beside her. “Has he received my parcel?”

“He has.” Smiling, he added, “Heloise he says has taken a liking to Miss Rapunzel.”

“Of course! It is Heloise!” Mrs. Westergaard then grinned at Henrietta, whose mood quickly shifted into that of jealousy, and said, “I’ve always said that Heloise is the friendly one and Henrietta is the clever one.”

“Who is the pretty one then?” asked Mr. Westergaard.

“I am!” said his wife, eyebrows raised. “Why do you think your sons are so handsome? It’s from me they inherit their looks.”

Klaus, who greatly resembled his father save for the colouration, cleared his throat and said, “Your handsome little son flew in the bitter rain and caught a chill. But now that he’s got the parcel I am sure he will recover quickly – I made him promise to eat the pickled garlic.”

“Good,” said Mrs. Westergaard. Then, adjusting the cloth over her head, she shared a knowing glance with her husband. “You have been asleep for a long time; the sun has set as you must have noticed. Did Hans have many things to say to you?”

“He is understandably homesick,” said Klaus. “When I finally got into his head, we were at the broken castle on the hill. Besides that, it seems he feels guilty for treating Mr. Rider coldly. Hans demanded I not to delve into details too much – he’s embarrassed – but I gave him council on how to make amends with that boy.” And more importantly, Hans had made him swear to God that he will not mention Flynn Rider’s habits to their parents. Klaus himself could not prevent frowning upon learning of that boy’s preferred garments and what company he kept.

Mr. Westergaard, who in spite of his stern countenance felt deeply the separation, sighed and walked to the windows. He cut quite the image standing there with an expression a thousand miles away. When the first missive had arrived, he had wondered why Hans had omitted many details concerning that Flynn Rider lad.

Having lived near fifty summers and winters, Mr. Westergaard had seen enough, experienced enough to say that the tender age of thirteen had been one of the most psychologically taxing of his life. The body changed in…well, the body changed and girls suddenly gained a certain charm and – then to his misery and today to his joy – the cleverest witch descended from the heavens and straight into his house, unwittingly acquainting him with lovesickness, heart palpitations, and paradoxical desires.

How Erik had suffered! How he had suffered wanting to catch her attention while also hating to draw it to himself; how envious he was when the other lads in the village spoke easily to her and all he could muster to do was to inconspicuously deliver her bowls of fruit and ices.

At least he had his mother to explain and guide him whether he wanted it or not. They were under the same roof and every day that excellent woman saw him slink across the property with sweets to bring to the greenhouse before running away like a frightened cat lest the pretty witch noticed him.

Mr. Westergaard was fairly confident that his lastborn was less of an idiot than him at that age. Although Hans was a prideful creature who liked attention so it might prove difficult to change considerably: twelve sons has already been thirteen and each reacted differently yet equally intensely at nonchalant remarks in behavioural alterations.

“Klaus, my son,” he said, gaze fixed on his twelfth-born chasing the hounds in the gardens, “what do you make of his living situations? Oneiromancy lets you poke around people’s head, does it not?”

“It does,” said Klaus gingerly, “though I try not to poke around the heads of my brothers. I consider it a violation of their privacy.”

“My father would sometimes burst into my head when I slept,” said Mrs. Westergaard flatly. “He once induced sleep paralysis in your uncle just so he could lecture him without the fear that he would dash out the door.”

“Considering Ivar had thrown himself into a fountain to hide from your father, I would say that was a wise precaution,” said Mr. Westergaard.

Klaus stared. “Mother, I hope you are not suggesting I repeat the trick.”

“No, no.” She closed her eyes and waved her hand in reassurance. “But,” she opened one grey eye, “it would have been interesting for me to learn of Hans’ experiences straight from his head. Perhaps see the effects of the Sundrop Flower on the girl even if it is from fragments of memories from his subconscious.” She smiled tightly. “I cannot believe that such a flower has been boiled in a simple kettle; can you imagine the strength of extracts I could have created with it? Two drops would have cured that baxter easily!”

“What’s done is done, Mother,” said Klaus, patting her hand. “I am feeling rather poorly – my head hurts – so why don’t we all have chamomile tea and I can tell you about my chat with Hans in more detail?”

“That would be capital!” Mrs. Westergaard rose from the armchair, pressed a hand to Klaus’ forehead, and frowned. “You’re a little hot, though I think it’s from the exertion. Erik, will you please set the kettle to boil? I’ll go fetch you some feverfew leaves for the headache.”

Thus, Klaus Westergaard underwent a peculiar sense of déjà vu as he sat in the kitchen with an expectation of a lengthy discussion (though instead of his youngest brother it shall be his parents). Raising his head to look at the portrait opposite the ice box, he smiled at the grinning face of his youngest brother. Prideful and petty though he can be, Klaus had all the faith in the world that Hans will not be so difficult and will properly befriend that boy. Judging by the regret he had shown and the begrudging fondness he expressed, it was clear to Klaus that sooner or later those two would be thick as thieves.  

Oneiromancy was a rare gift. Those who possessed it were either given a shimmer’s or Arcturus’ share of the power – there was no middle ground. Klaus was the latter. Thus, he did not need to wander his brother’s head as suggested by Mr. Westergaard to gain an idea of Flynn Rider’s character: he felt it the moment Hans spoke of him.

“Would you like honey?” asked Mr. Westergaard.

Klaus blinked and took a moment to remember himself. Then he said, “Yes, please. Might I have the clover honey?”

“Naturally.” Mr. Westergaard set three steaming cups on the table. Seating himself across the table, he crossed his long legs and indulged in a nice long sip. With a clink he set the cup down, and tapping fingers against the tablecloth he said, “Are you sure you cannot tell me about this Flynn boy? I would write to Hans about him but I do not want to fluster him – you know how sensitive children are at that age: Markus acted as if a mere unwanted look would smite him into salt.”

“Hans will be fine,” said Klaus. “Father, none in this family are as anxious-ridden as I am. If I say he will be fine then he must surely be alright. But I agree that we could imply at wanting more information from his own hand in our next missive. It’s the art of subtlety, is it not? That is what Mother calls it, anyhow.”

Mr. Westergaard moved his head from side to side in a manner familiar to those who had troubled considering two options. Klaus (bless him) was known for his high-strung nerves so there was weight to his words, yet there was that paternal worry tugging at him ever since he had heard of the prediction and confirmation of Hans flying in the rain. Chills could develop into something lethal, yet what was more relevant was his disliking that his ill child was in another city with a cat, an eagle, a flower-infused girl, a mysterious boy, and two bakers for company. There was a deciding lack of family in that mix, and the Westergaards were a close-knit house.

So, with the tactfulness of a man well-married, he took another sip of chamomile tea and said, “I shall consult with your mother.”

Klaus smiled.

***

Pickled vegetables and jams, the companionship of Sitron and Heloise, and a comforting dream involving his brother were just the things that nursed Hans back to good health. Mistress Arianna had smartly restricted the presence of other children both to protect them and to let him rest, and after a fortnight of peaceful solitude the young wizard felt ready to take up his responsibilities again.

The first point in his agenda was to prepare Heloise for flight. She had refused to leave till she saw him well. Last night was the first time she did not chase him back to bed upon catching him walking around the flat. Today she agreed to fly back home lest her mistress grow displeased. Hans was thankful for her care. As a gesture of gratitude, he wrapped a piece of seedy bread in a clean cloth for Heloise to take on the journey and scratched her chin as long as she wanted.

“The higher the clouds, the better the weather,” he said, opening the windows. “I do hope you will not have to suffer rain on the way home.” Heloise flapped onto the windowsill, clutching tightly the cloth, and rubbed her face against his cheek. Hans snorted. “I know, I know. I will mind the rain too.”

Heloise crowed in approval. Then she bid Sitron farewell, nuzzled Hans again, spread her powerful golden-brown wings and flew across the courtyard and straight to heaven. They watched her soar until she was nothing but a small dark dot in a sea of blue, sinking deeper into the abyss.

Hans sighed. There was his only other friend from home besides his cat gone. Still, it was time for Heloise to depart and for him to move on to the second point on the list: household cleaning.

While he was indisposed, both cat and eagle prevented him from leaving his bed for a meaningful period. No floors were swept, no dishes washed, no laundry ironed. All he did was read books, make simple meals, and sleep soundly like a baby from dawn to dusk. A sweet way to live, to be sure, when one had servants or was proficient in cleaning spells. Hans was neither. Through sheer stubbornness he however cast yet another enchantment on a bristle brush and set it to scrubbing the floors.

“Will it be safe?” asked Sitron.

“It cannot be worse than the mop. Now,” he said, lifting a large basket of damp clothes, “would you rather watch the brush scrub or hang the laundry with me?”

Historically, this chore was always unwelcomed by the Westergaard boys. There were disputes over what belonged to whom and no tower was higher than that of wet smalls belonging to a family of fifteen. Hans had additional reason to dislike the task: his small size made it difficult to hang the clothes of his much larger brothers. Brennan’s sweaters alone could engulf him.

A pleasant discovery was made that day: laundry was not so wretched a task when you had less than fourteen articles of clothing. Hans grinned at Sitron, revelling in not having to tackle the customary dozens of undershirts, and went to make them breakfast. It was with great pleasure that Sitron followed his friend to the house; it was with equal despair he left within three minutes once he realised that breakfast was pancakes.

“What did you expect?” Hans cracked an egg into the bowl.  “I have not shopped for groceries in over a fortnight.”

“I dreamt of Mama’s breakfasts last night,” said Sitron, peeking through the window. “I dreamt of a table filled with eggs poached and devilled, honeyed fruits, cereals, hot sausages and cold cuts and fresh bread.” He jumped onto the table and scrunched his little nose. “Aren’t you tired of eating pancakes?”

“I try not to think too much about my diet. Otherwise it becomes depressing,” admitted Hans, whisking the batter. “But now that I am well, we could buy new food at the shops! Also,” he turned towards the cat, “you do not really have a right to complain about food when it was you who destroyed that tin of peaches Mother sent us. You’d have eaten all of the cherry jam too were it not for Heloise snapping at you.”

Sitron blushed. “I was hungry!”

Hans laughed and shook his head. Sitron had done his best to keep him cheerful throughout his sickness; as far as he was concerned, his cat could have as many delicacies as he liked for putting up with a cranky, feverish boy and a strutting eagle for a fortnight. But he could not help his teasing for it amused him to see his friend flustered.

The pancakes were somehow half-burnt and fluffy. Hans lathered them with his mother’s fruit preserves and broke his fast with exaggerated gusto which Sitron quickly adopted. Warm tea and pancakes, while repetitive and borderline tedious, were improved vastly by cherry and strawberry jams. They loudly hummed their approval of the dish, sipped their beverages, and Hans laughed at the stories Sitron regaled – the feline had become his local radio, informing him of the happenings in their neighbourhood.

As they giggled over some trivial comments Sitron had overheard, they were interrupted by a knock on the door. It opened before Hans could rise from his seat, though rise he did nonetheless at the arrival of his landlady. “Good morning, Madam,” he said, bowing.

The gesture amused Madam Arianna. No matter how many times she had told him it was unnecessary, the boy would always stand up and greet her upon seeing her for the first time each day; the fact that he had returned to his custom which momentarily ceased during his fever signified to her his improved health.

“Morning to you boys as well,” she said. In her hands, Madam Arianna held a brown paper bag that she placed on the table. “I trust that you are feeling better?”

“Immensely so, Ma’am. I do hope it was not an inconvenience to you.”

“Of course not!” She scanned the room. “Has Heloise gone to stretch her wings?”

“Oh! Heloise has gone home this morning,” said Hans. “She deemed me much improved and decided it was time to go back to her mistress.”

“That’s wonderful!” Madam placed hands on her back, puffing up as she strained to support her big belly. “Lovely as she was, I have to admit that Heloise’s flapping and cries startled me constantly.”

“She is rather loud,” said Hans shily. “Have you need of something, Ma’am? You rarely come up here so this is new.”

“I’ve a favour to ask of you, young man.” She picked up the bag and gave it to him alongside a copper coin. “Will you deliver it to Mrs. Fitzherbert on Seven Denhill Lane?”

“Gladly, Ma’am, but you do not need to give me the coin. It’s just around the corner!”

“Hans, work is work! The coin is yours; and be sure to deliver this personally,” she finished with a wink. Then she moved to pet Sitron’s head and smiled. “Since the address is so near, why don’t you go by yourself? Your friend can keep me company. We can watch a program on television while I knit clothes for the baby. How does that sound, Sitron? Maximus will join us as well!”

The cat meowed his enthusiastic acceptance for the first part of the plan. He was not terribly fond of the white cat he occasionally saw slink around the bakery. It was very self-righteous and too wilful for a familiar – honestly, it reminded him of the hunting hounds back at Knight’s Roost. Luckily for him, the feeling was mutual as Maximus thought Sitron too attached and dependant on his human companion. Still, they were polite creatures and could sit amicably besides the pregnant mistress of the house.

Task given and cat taken, Madam Arianna walked across the courtyard with Hans, parting ways where the road started. Sitron bid his farewell too, and thus began the quiet, sunny walk to the seventh house on Denhill Lane.

Through cobbled streets, flanked by brick red-roofed houses, the wizard walked in tune with the crooked alleys of the neighbourhood. It felt strange to not have Sitron pattering beside him or perched on his shoulder. One foot in front of the other, Hans fell deeper into his idle thoughts (most of which revolved around the books he had read in quarantine) as he checked house numbers and peered into the blooming summer gardens. Eventually he found himself in a very narrow alley; checking both ends, Hans headed towards the sound of gulls and gasped at the gorgeous view of ships and water which met him at the end of the lane. 

“How I wish I had a camera,” sighed Hans wistfully. “It’s so pretty. Sitron would like it.”

Behind the wizard was a white-washed wall of pale bricks. Behind these walls lived a certain Mrs. Fitzherbert, an old woman whose tenants included a young woman studying architecture, an old bachelor, and two young boys: one tall, broad-shouldered, with a striking resemblance to Murphy Stabbington and the other none other than the notorious Flynn Rider.

Flynn Rider had been basking in the sun when Hans had leaned against the iron railings and sighed. Having dedicated considerable time and effort into both bothering and befriending the young wizard, Flynn had an inkling as to whom the sigh belonged and was very happy to see that he was correct. He had pushed himself atop the wall, sat cross-legged, and said brightly, “Hans! You’re alive!”

Snapping at the sound of his name, Hans was even more startled by the boy than Madam Arianna was by the eagle. “Of course, I’m alive!” he said, more surprised than indignant. “Mother sent me pickled vegetables. I think that helped.”

“I bet,” said Flynn, smiling wider. “What’re you doing? Just chilling around town?”

“No, I have a delivery for Mrs. Fitzherbert on Seven Denhill Lane.”

Now surprise took hold of Flynn. “That’s here.”

“What?”

“Mrs. Fitzherbert is my landlady.” He patted the wall. “This is Seven Denhill Lane. Um, go down these stairs, will you? I’ll meet you at the bottom.”

Hans stood even after Flynn had disappeared. A slight blush appeared on his cheeks, and he muttered how sly Madam Arianna was and slier still was his brother. Klaus had mentioned numerously throughout their conversation that reconciliation would come soon on a sunlit day. In his dreams, Hans had assumed it was simply the result of his big brother wanting to sound pretty. Apparently not.

The steps down to the garden of Seven Denhill Lane were dusty; the wind kept blowing it up to his face and he coughed, yet it would not be false to say that Hans was perhaps searching for an excuse onto which he could pin his discomfort. Klaus had advised him to simply apologise because there was no getting around it, but Klaus was the embodiment of steadfast patience who had years of experience of saying sorry to his dozen brothers for the littlest things if it meant the triumph of household peace. Hans was the opposite. True, he was not as bad as some of his siblings and cousins, yet he too had a history of refusing to say sorry even when he was clearly in the wrong out of principle.

Flynn Rider took the paper bag and bit into a gingersnap. At Hans’ tight expression, he jovially said, “Mrs. Fitzherbert won’t mind it if I have a few.”

Nodding, the wizard balled his hands into fists and said, “I want to apologise for not coming on time and not even warning you in advance. You must have waited an awfully long time in the cold rain.”

Flynn started. Then he smiled. He had not expected such an earnest apology. Not when the last he had seen of Hans, the boy snapped and scowled more than usual. “It’s fine! The rainstorm did a number on you, not me.” He sized him up eagerly. “It’s good to see you back on your feet. I would have visited you but that eagle circled your flat like a menacing guardian.”

“Heloise is protective,” said Hans, slightly embarrassed. “I still want to say sorry for being rather…for being unfriendly to you.”

“Apology accepted.” He winked. “I knew you’d come around to me. Tell me, was it my Smoulder that did it?”

“No. Actually I think every time you ‘smouldered’ me, my opinion of you decreased by five percent.”

“And you call me uncultured,” tutted Flynn, shaking his head. He then brightened. “Say, would you mind taking a look at my secret project?”

“It would not be much of a secret I see it, will it not?” said Hans, but Flynn had already crossed half the yard. Typical.

He followed him across the garden to the garage further down the steps. Hans maintained a certain distance in case the project was messy in nature, but to his surprise it was less childish and more engineered. Inside the garage was a dark green bicycle of regular make, yet most unregularly at its head where a basket would be hung was instead a spinning wheel of sorts found on airplanes. Around it were tools, bolts, and half-open tins of paint and grease.

“The party was in honour of its unveiling,” said Flynn, hopping onto the seat. “The wings and cockpit are kept elsewhere – Mrs. Fitzherbert tolerates only so much of my ruckus. I’m the pilot!” He sped up the peddling and imitated the sound of the engine, earning a tentative but genuine laugh from the wizard. With that positive sign, he slowed his legs and said, “Listen, hop on and come with me to the beach. The weather’s nice and we can see the dirigible there. We might even spot Rapunzel and her friend Cass.”

“A dirigible?”

“Haven’t you heard it on the wireless?”

“I’ve been listening to music this morning. Sitron and I were cleaning the house.”

“Well,” said Flynn, pushing the bike out of the garage, “all the more reason for you to tag along. It will be fun and I need to strengthen my legs for the mission ahead.”

“Are we going to go there on this thing?” asked Hans, lowering his head to better observe the chains linking the wheels. “I’ve never sat on a bike, let alone ride one.”

“Really?” Flynn was surprised. “Don’t they have them in the country?”

“Of course, we do! Some of my brothers own them and my mother even owns a pair of athletic bloomers that she wears when she wants to cycle.”

“So, why haven’t you ever you been on one?”

Hans blushed. “I like horses better.”

“Horses?” Flynn grinned like an idiot. “Man, you are old-fashioned!”

“Be quiet!” Red as a rose, the wizard quickened his step to hide his flustered expression. “I’ll have you know that it is great fun to gallop across the village green on a filly.”

“That I do not doubt, Hans; but where am I supposed to get my hands on a filly in Corona City?”

“Maybe you ought to come to Knight’s Roost then,” he said, rather boldly because a month ago he would rather have walked the city on foot than invite Flynn Rider to his village. “You can help me annoy the stablemaster. If you look very carefully, you can notice how he avoids me on busy days because I’m constantly underfoot.”

Flynn snorted. “Are you the hooligan of Knight’s Roost?”

Hans smacked his arm. “How dare you!” he said with a humorous tone. “I’m an angel and the stablemaster is a grouch.”

At the end of the garden path they set the bicycle. Flynn sat in front, feet slipped into the pedals, and he directed Hans on the back. “Let’s go!” exclaimed the older boy, who commenced his aggressive pedalling while the younger watched the pinwheel spin faster and faster in awe. “Push! Push us forward!”

For such an impressive structure, it moved at a snail’s pace. Flynn panted as they leisurely travelled along the street; Hans felt bad for the obvious strain and inquired whether he should get off the bike, to which the former adamantly insisted that he stay put. A middle-aged man saw them and laughed, wishing them good luck on their adventures. Flynn righteously ignored the fellow so Hans thanked the man in his stead. He was more than ready to repeat his question when they reached a twisting, sloping street that propelled them forward better than any pushing or pedalling on their part could.

Joining a main road, Flynn focused on driving the bike well – revelling in the fact that his vehicle had not collapsed – and Hans let himself enjoy the view of the lapping azure sea to their left. Seagulls swooped to catch birds; ships blew their horns in the distance; and soon a car beeped its horn. Inside of it were three little girls and their mother, happily waving and encouraging their endeavours. Hans reciprocated with equal enthusiasm, already imagining what picture he will paint for his parents in the next letter home.

“Hans!” shouted Flynn. “I need you to lean to your left at the turn there!”

“Why?” shouted Hans back, leaning forward to hear his friend better.

“Or else we’ll drive straight into the stones there!”

This was not so dissimilar to flying on a broom or sailing a boat out to the sea. Balance was key – too much weight on one end and not enough on the other will always lead to disaster. Hans, who flew on brooms since birth, knew the importance of it well and fearlessly tilted the entirety of his torso to the side – his face nearly touching the cement roads – to guide Flynn’s bicycle. Perhaps I ought to invest in a bicycle, he thought as swept down the spiralling street. I should like to travel across the countryside without having to worry about watering and feeding the horses.

Before he could further elaborate or even admire the dirigible on the horizon, Hans and Flynn screamed with terror as an automobile rushed towards them. Hans instinctually wrapped his arms around his friend’s waist while Flynn prepared for a certain demise when suddenly—

“We’re flying!”

Flynn Rider was what some might say a bicycle master. He liked to tinker with them, renovate them as best he could, and escaped police officers many times on his trusty vehicle. So, it was with absolute surety that he screamed, “We’re actually flying!” when the bike uneasily lifted off the ground. “Hans, open your eyes! Look, look!”

“I am looking!” cried the wizard, arms still tight round his friend. “I guess your funny machine can—watch out!”

Watch out Flynn did not, and so a lorry was a hair’s breadth from striking them dead were it not for Hans reaching out to twist the direction of the handle off the cliffside road.

“Why did you do that?” demanded Flynn.

“I don’t know! And—don’t stop pedalling!”

“I haven’t stopped!” Flynn pushed Hans’ grasping hands off the front as he quickened his legs, though to be honest neither boy was certain as to whether this will help at all, while the motor which he had worked hard to obtain was ripped off by thick oaken branches. Up it went like a helicopter seed, and down they went like fallen angels whose wings – or in this case wheels – slammed against grass, somewhat softening the blow.

The wheels of the bike sent them careening down the slope of the hill. Flynn extended his legs for God knew what reason; perhaps to somehow slow himself? The children practically flew downwards as the motor spun in the sky, and then the bicycle gave out with the decorum of a dying man. The result was natural: Hans lost his hold, landed on his back, and turned over thrice while Flynn fell face-first onto the grass and flopped to the side, dead.

Chapter Text

“Autumn comes, the summer is past,
Winter will come too soon.
Stars will shine clearer, skies seem nearer,
Under the harvest moon.”

English folk song.

Aching all over, Hans took a moment to remember himself. While he was countryside raised, Hans was not particularly involved in the manual labour associated with agriculture. Fifteen Lionheart Lane was a handsome estate – built beautifully in accordance with the finest tastes and attached to gorgeous lands – and Mr Westergaard was a gentleman whose children need not work the land for a living.

Of course, this did not at all mean they were delicate little things! Some of the sons strengthened their limbs and muscles by building boats, carving wood, and running wild and free across the property. These activities suited their fancies and quickened their blood. Hans was no different as he enjoyed riding horses and swimming in the sea, though it must be said that he was fonder still of dancing and books and music. So, healthy as he was, our hero was no comparison to the hearty sons of farmers reaping grain every harvest season.

Lightning-fast the pain travelled from his core to the edge of his fingertips and toes. It was simultaneously thrumming and sharp, deep and shallow. Hans pushed himself upwards, winced at the disturbing crack produced by his neck, rubbed his nose, and gasped upon seeing his friend laying quietly as if he were a stillborn exposed on a bed of grass.

“Flynn!” Hans scrambled to his feet. “Are you alright? Are you badly hurt?”

With arms and legs outstretched in the shape of a star, Flynn Rider grimaced before opening his eyes. “Yep,” he said, or rather groaned. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just peachy. God, I feel like I’m going to die. Do you think Blondie can fix me with her hair? Cause I think if she doesn’t then I’ll wake up tomorrow feeling like a fillet of chicken beaten to a second death by an angry housewife.”

Something about the tone or manner or the weight of the words had turned a knob in Hans’ head. We cannot say for certain what it was about a complaining Flynn Rider with clumps of grass stuck to his knees, elbows, and hair that triggered the following scene, but it would not be wrong to say that it was a most joyous outcome to what otherwise might have been a terrible accident.

“You are such a character!” exclaimed the young boy, bursting into laughter after blinking dumbly for a minute. “Oh, goodness gracious! Why, I never—I don’t think—Not even Maron would be so stupid as—Flynn! Flynn! Flynn!” And so the words faded in a second, more powerful wave of hilarity.

This sight enraptured Flynn Rider. Up until today, the boys were not true friends for the younger nurtured a passive distrust towards the elder who reciprocated with teases, further antagonising himself. He had naturally seen Hans’ revelries when Rapunzel joined them, but even there was a sense of restraint – perhaps a habit bred into him by his family.  

Now Flynn saw Hans really, truly, genuinely shake with laughter. Shoulders trembled, ivory skin reddened, eyes were shut tight with crinkles forming on the edges – the picture of joy. Happiness had the wondrous magic of uplifting anyone near it, and the longer Flynn watched the wizard laugh so hard he had wrapped his arms around his waist in a vain effort to calm himself, the quicker he forgot the droning pain in his thighs and calves.

Rising from the earth, Flynn was too astounded by the unbound mirth to say something witty. Even if he were not amazed, his razor-sharp wit had been swiftly replaced with affectionate sincerity as he listened to laughter die down to a chuckle.

“Did I look that stupid on the ground?” he asked earnestly.

Hans giggled, wildly nodding his head. Long, slender fingers wiped the tears readying to spill. “Absolutely, my friend!”

My friend. The phrase echoed in Flynn’s head and his bright brown eyes widened as if a revelation had come unto him. Never before had he heard Hans use those words together when describing Flynn or Rapunzel or anyone besides Sitron for that matter!

Oh sure, they were companions and acquaintances and good people; but what Flynn wanted was for the boy to loosen the buckles of his country manners and call him his friend, true and proper.

And now he had.

Flynn joined him in laughter. “God, I was terrified out of my mind! Say, you were magicking just now, weren’t you?”

“I honestly can’t say considering I was running on pure instinct alone.”

“Would you say magicking is a part of your instincts?”

“I guess?” Hans then leaned past him and sighed. “Oh, Flynn, your poor bicycle!”

“I’m sure I can fix it and—oh no!”

“What’s wrong?”

Flynn pointed eastward where the spinning top of the bicycle gently glided downwards in large circles reminiscent of curled paper. “I need to fetch it! My friends will be furious – it was a joint investment. Wait for me here, okay? Watch my bike while I go grab it.”

His legs beat Hans’ response. Although the latter was too stunned for offense by how strangely Flynn walked: legs swung outwards as if the necks of the femurs were dislocated from their sockets. “Why are you running like that?” called out Hans.

“I pedalled too hard!”

Chuckling, Hans carefully picked up the bike with a delicacy he reserved for the elderly. The seat-post had turned one-hundred and eighty degrees; the frame was dented like it had been beaten by a club; loose were the chains, dangling sadly to the side, and the dirt-caked pedals spun with dangerous unrestraint. A spell might have fixed the poor thing to its former glory – well, whatever glory it boasted in the cellar – but Hans had no clue which one to cast.

The contemplation did not last long, however, as Flynn caught his ear with loud curses. The pinwheel top kept dodging his attempts to catch it; gusts of sea wind pushed it upwards just as the boy extended his tanned arms towards it.

Hans frowned. He had noticed how other park visitors watched Flynn without offering their aid. Observing his friend chase after the pinwheel top reminded him of the distressful sights in the village green when the wind pulls hats off the heads of men; were there moments more embarrassing than one was in pursuit of his own hat?

Married Mr. Westergaard strategically avoided this degradation by sending a child to grab it for him whereas bachelors and young men were forced to pursue the object themselves. The general rules were to avoid unnecessary faff caused by overexertion and to put it back on as smoothly as possible, smiling to ensure that no soul commented on your flustered state and hurry away from the scene of the crime.

Poor Flynn Rider through no fault of his own broke those unspoken guidelines immediately: he huffed and puffed like a chain-smoker in denial of his poor habits and the wind stubbornly refused to set the pinwheel on the grass.

Two fingers bent, the remainder including the thumb stretched apart, Hans raised his right arm and twisted it towards himself then upwards to capture the spinning top in a magical snare. It froze mid-air and so did Flynn in his steps, though shortly he directed his attention to the wizard, who very slowly drew in his arm to his chest. The motion carried the top to the bicycle till Hans relaxed his hand, breaking the net and sending the metal piece falling to the ground.

Flynn let his mouth fall wide open, attention completely captivated by the faint glow which rapidly faded from the dingy pinwheel top he and his friends had found at a garage sale. Since he first saw Hans fly on his witchy broom on that bright day in May, Flynn fixed an idea in his head to observe real magic, not the sleight of hand and illusions in which he himself was an expert.

To his disappointment, Hans had strange ideas about the ‘dignity of witchcraft’ and incessant prattled about how he was not a side-gag that lit embers into existence with the snap of fingers for petty cash. The best Flynn had witnessed were him singing an incantation to bring Rapunzel’s hair to life and his flights.

“What was that?!” he cried, running. “What did you do? I swear this thing—” he pointed at the pinwheel “—glowed. Like it actually honest-to-God glowed.”

Hans blinked. “It’s a simple spell to fetch things.”

“How does it work?” panted Flynn, clasping the other’s shoulders.

“Well,” Hans blushed at the distance (or rather the lack of it) between their faces, “imagine a net fishermen use to haul in the critters at the bottom of the sea floor.”

“So that glow I saw was a magical net?”

“You could say that.” The wizard shook himself free. “Really, Flynn, it is not that impressive. Toddlers can do the same thing on a smaller magnitude.”

“Ah, but it is impressive!” Hands on his hips, Flynn bobbed his head and ran the tip of his tongue along his upper teeth. “God, that was amazing.”

Though Hans revelled in compliments given to him by customers both at the bakery and on deliveries, and he shone like the sun when praised by his landlady and Rapunzel, now he sewn himself up in a shy sort of pride as Flynn oftener mocked him. “Do you honestly believe that?”

“Of course, I do!”

Hans smiled. “Let’s go sit over there. I’ll show you some spells if you’d like.”

“You will? Can you fix my bike as well? Maybe even improve it?” said Flynn, brows wiggling.

“I’m not that good,” said the wizard flatly. “One of my brothers—Elias perhaps…”

“Not a problem,” said Flynn, gathering the metal remains. “Onwards, I say!”

***

Sweeps of white clouds, thin and wan and waifish, were strewn across the blue sky. The dirigible loomed in the distance as if a roiling storm. Men in sandals held the hands of women in sundresses as they strolled along the length of the sea, occasionally hopping up the low steep edge separating the sand from the grass. The sand itself was different to what most might picture; it not composed of golden grains found on the shores of Treasure Island, rather it was a beige-white colour suited better to be underneath a longship than the bare feet of a child.

The boys sat on the edge with the broken bike behind them and their attention firmly glued to the dirigible. Despite sharing an interest in that mighty advent of technology, they had different reasons behind their rapt attention. Flynn like Icarus wished to get as close as he could to the sun (though he was determined not to follow the fate of ‘that wax-winged sucker’) whereas Hans found it admirable (and slightly annoying) how people overcame obstacles to reach the Witch’s Field.

“Say, Red—” Flynn had invented a new nickname for the wizard, “—do you remember when you flew for the first time?”

Hans shook his head. On his palm was a ball of fire that he tossed upwards to set the crimson ribbons free from the binds tying them to him. They shall twirl and swirl, and whirl till the cooler air of the heights snuffed them. Ever fond of showing off his prowess (especially since Flynn was unable to compare him to other wizards), Hans concentrated keenly on his earliest days and pressed the tips of his fingers against his breast.

Memories were flexible things. People stored them in their hearts, minds, objects; often holy places carried their sacred nature from one religion to another – sanctity imbued the very stones and bricks on the site – and even buildings soaked up the feelings and actions seen within their walls. Hans took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and unspooled a string.

This startled Flynn greatly. All wonders and illusions aside, he did not expect to see a glittering silver thread just appear from the bluish waistcoat of his friend.

The thread flung like a droplet of water, disappearing into thin air, yet in its wake was an image instead of humidity. Flynn cocked his head as the misty silvery haze took shape of a woman in her mid-thirties flying on a broom. She bore an uncanny resemblance to Hans save for the sharper grace in her demeanour and darker colouring. In the miniature reproduction, Flynn noticed that on her back was a tightly-bundled baby. Tufts of red hair were stark against the white cloth.

“My mother would take me flying since I was a baby in wrapped in swaddling clothes,” said Hans. “This is a trickier spell, Flynn. I’ve had to piece it together with other memories or else we would have just seen what I saw as a nursing baby.”

“Like in first person?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, you’re going to have to explain that later in more detail but,” Flynn pointed at the woman, “is that your mother?”

“It is, yes.”

“She’s pretty.” Flynn inspected the wizard. “You look like her.”

Whether he intended it as a compliment or not, Hans took it as such and flushed accordingly. “Thank you.”

Flynn was about to pat Hans’ back when an infant cry distracted him. Mrs. Westergaard’s miniscule copy heard the cry too. She swerved the broom to an abrupt stop and, succeeding a series of quick manoeuvres, brought her newly-born son to her chest. Just as she fiddled with a button located on the left edge of the neckline, her son of thirteen years snapped into action to preserve both dignity and modesty: cutting through the image with his hand, he sent it fading into thin air.

“Your mother’s so cool,” sighed Flynn, thankfully ignoring his friend’s embarrassment and falling onto his back. “I wish I’d been born to a family of witches. Then I could have been flying before I learned to walk like you! What the hell did I do in my past life for me to be stuck on the ground or, worse, my dying bike?”

“Your bicycle is already dead,” said Hans, smirking. Then he became serious. “Anyway, do you think I’m darting across the sky from dawn to dusk out of pure fancy? These days I fly because it’s my job.”

“And what of it? You like flying, don’t you? So long as you enjoy your work then I see no problems with going at it full force! Better that than slaving away in some stuffy office you hate to make ends meet or because ‘it’s the right thing to do’,” finished Flynn with a sneer.

“That’s a splendid outlook to have on things! I hope I can always enjoy my endeavours.” Hans turned his head to face the waters, humming gladly. “I’m definitely enjoying this view. The energy and sort of people are different to what is in my village, yet I like it nonetheless.”

“We can come here every day if you want! I’ll fix my bike and then I’ll pedal us both here on it.”

“Won’t you tire?”

“Nah. It’ll be good practice for me.”

Hans chuckled. “You’re quite funny!”

“What? I’m hilarious!” Flynn frowned. “Did you notice that just now?”

“To be fair, I thought you were a hooligan and resented your mockery.”

“If we swap your words to something more modern, you’ll sound exactly like my roommate. Seamus is always getting on my nerves about it; though between the two of us he’s more of a hooligan than me.”

The canny reader will remember that this Seamus character was the brother of the sylvan artist. The cannier reader will know to be sceptical of Flynn’s claims, as indeed Hans was for he had conjured in his mind an idea that no one related to that kind artist could be too bad of a person. The Westergaards to their core were a family whose belief in the proverb of ‘blood is thicker than water’ was unshakeable, and they also held the notion that siblings with opposing personalities could (and should) have harmonious relationships.

 “Flynn,” began Hans, “I’m confident I haven’t told you the whole story of my first delivery, but you ought to know that I met a young man—”

“Flynn!” cut in a loud, female voice.

A shabby, rusty, greyish-green car stopped at the beaten road cutting through the area. Patched with strips of duct tape and random nails, it also sported graffiti and large stickers in the shapes of hearts, zig-zags, and other such motifs that most countryside folk would find ghastly and most urbanites tacky. Within this vehicle were four people: three girls and, coincidentally, Seamus Stabbington.

“Wait for me here,” said Flynn for the second time that hour, rising and dashing to meet his friends.

Hans shifted in his seat, straightening as far as he could to better examine these individuals. Two of the girls were entirely unfamiliar to him, yet he was intimately acquainted with the one sitting in the passenger seat: she was the granddaughter of that good old Madam; the very girl who slammed the door in Hans’ face on that horrid rainy day.

In an effort to squash the ugly feelings within him, which twisted to life between his ribs and were heavy with bitterness, Hans channelled his focus onto Seamus.

Knight’s Roost had a few pair of twins, including two of Hans’ brothers. The crucial fact, however, was that the male twins in the village were all fraternal and the single identical pair were seventeen-year-old misses keen on maintaining a striking dissimilarity through their mannerisms, clothes, hairstyles, habits, etc. It was odd then to see someone who wore Murphy Stabbington’s face, had his hair colour and his eyes (though notably the brother did not wear a patch) and general features, yet as Hans would say lacked the same nobility.

Perhaps Murphy was elevated in rank by having met the wizard before his brother. Perhaps Seamus was ruined by sitting on the driver’s seat of a crumbling vehicle next to a girl who had left a poor impression on Hans. One could theorise all day on which factors had a role in forming wizardly opinions, though it must be noted that the longer Flynn was with the company the more curious Hans became.

“Who is that over there?” asked one of the girls, loud enough for Hans to hear. “I haven’t seen him at school.”

“That’s my friend, Hans. He’s a wizard.” Flynn turned and smiled. “Hans, let’s go to the dirigible together – my friends are heading that way.”

Hans approached them carefully, almost skittishly. The car coughed and spluttered balefully. The girls were neither the genteel daughters of country gentlemen nor the hardy, robust lasses that ran wild across the fields clad in wool and armed with rakes, spades, and shovels. Seamus Stabbington for all the traits shared with his brother was so very different to him and Hans wished Murphy was present to acquaint them properly.

“It’s so nice to see you again,” said Madam’s granddaughter. “We didn’t properly talk last time. What was your name again?”

Although Hans was fairly confident he had never given his name, he amicably said, “Hans Westergaard. I come from Knight’s Roost.”

“It’s a village south of here,” clarified Flynn. “Hans, this here is Seamus and the girls are June-Marie, Rosalynn, and Cynthia.”

“A pleasure to meet you!” said June-Marie, the tallest of the girls. “Say, you’re the very wizard that delivered the pie to Cynthia on her birthday, right?”

“I don’t think there are other wizard in Corona City,” said Seamus. “Rosa and I would have spotted them on our drives.” Then suddenly the young man furrowed his brows as he stared at Hans with his eyes the blue of a clear summer sky. “We haven’t met before, have we? You look familiar.”

“We have not,” said Hans. “But I’ve had the good fortune of meeting your brother. I was in the woods recently. There was a painter—”

“Got it,” said Seamus, closing his eyes for a moment. “Yeah, my brother did mention meeting someone. He forgot to say it was a wizard.”

“Murphy’s got a gift for keeping quiet,” said Flynn, elbowing him with a smirk.

Just as Hans was about to argue (he found the tone used unfair), he caught sight of the pink watch wrapped around June-Marie’s slender hand and gasped. “I have to go,” he said abruptly.

Flynn, who’d been snickering alongside Seamus, snapped to attention like a soldier. “What? Why? Where are you going? You’re not working today, are you?”

“I promised to call my father today at two o’clock. I have not spoken to him at all whilst sick – Madam would not let me leave my room – and he made me promise to call him. I have to call him.”

“Wait a minute,” said Rosa. “If you hadn’t spoken to him at all then how have you arranged this call?”

“Oh, my brother appeared in my dreams and told me so,” said Hans to the great bafflement of others.

“Can’t you postpone?” asked Cynthia.

“Of course not! My parents are—”

“Old-fashioned,” added Flynn.

“I resent the use of that from you,” said Hans, brow raised and finger accusatorially pointed. “But yes they are old-fashioned. My mother will be cross if I am not punctual and the last thing we need is her sending one of her eagles back here. Do you not agree, Flynn?”

Nodding and humming, the young boy sighed his concurrence. “I hate to say it, folks,” he addressed those in the car, “but a witch’s familiars are no joke. Hans’ mother has entire eagles as pets, one of whom nearly tore out my eye recently because I tried to um—I tried to bother him while he was sick.”

Seamus then grinned, broad and wicked. “Really? I’d like to meet this bird then! As for you,” he clapped the wizard’s back so strongly it took everything within the latter to remain standing, “we shall you later then. And thanks for saying hello to Murphy – he needs to get out of the forest more.”

Hans nodded. “Have a nice time at the dirigible.”

***

“That boy sounds untrustworthy.”

“Is it because of his car? It does not look as bad as I described it, Papa.”

“Well, he gives me the impression of being a hooligan.”

“His brother is very sweet. And the girls next to him all struck me as decent misses.”

“Even decent misses might take a fancy to ruffians, my son. If anything,” said Mr. Westergaard guardedly, “they are prone to it.”

Hans let out a deep breath and huffed fondly. Weeks had passed since he had last heard his father’s voice. Calls were expensive – intercity ones even more – and subsequently the wizard had carefully sequestered a portion of his earnings into a fund to cover the expenses of contacting his family. Usually he relied on quill and paper and stamps; today he indulged in the telephone.

To the south of Corona City, over the hills and industrial towns and harbours in a handsome village stood Mr. Erik Westergaard in the corridor of his house. All day he had waited for the phone to ring; now that it had rung he would not be parted from it. Surrounded by familial portraits and flowers, Mr. Westergaard had the joy of hearing his son ramble about urbanites and cars and dirigibles while gazing at his little face painted on a round canvas hanging just above a rose-filled vase.

His wife crept around him, occasionally leaning in to hear the subject of conversation. Mostly she kept to herself and kept an eye on the fruits stewing in the kitchen. There were treats laid out a ceramic dish on the sill of the open window in anticipation of Heloise’s return home – Mrs. Westergaard had an inkling her familiar would arrive very, very soon.

“Speaking to Seamus Stabbington was terribly uncomfortable,” Hans was saying, “for I had suddenly recalled his brother on whom I forgot to call. I’ve never promised and neither has he invited me, but it is very rude of me to have left him in the dark to my illness. Murphy Stabbington must think that I am neglecting him – and this man had even said he would like to draw me! He must have impeccable taste: I always knew I had the nicest nose in the family.”

“He will forgive you,” said Mr. Westergaard, laughing. “Young boys are always forgiven. And you were badly ill to boot!” His cheer dampened at that recollection. “Hans, you should take care of yourself better. I bet you returned to that storage flat without having changed your clothes or taken the time to bathe in hot water. No wonder you suffered a chill.”

Hans humorously accepted the lecture. Had he informed his father of the truth – that he was too sad to take a bath – then he knew that Mr. Westergaard will be unable to sleep tonight. Parental solicitude had the habit of extending one-way i.e. parents would worry about their children without caring for their own nerves and health as they did. Thus, Hans huffed and spoke smartly to cheer Mr. Westergaard:

“Madam Arianna fed me tea and porridge. She was very good to me, Father, she always is. I do hope when you come to visit me that you will befriend her and her husband as I’ve come to befriend their daughter.” He giggled. “They’ve a cat too!”

“You haven’t mentioned a cat in your letters.”

“Sitron censors me. They do not get along very well.”

“Is that so? Well, if they do not like each other then it is their right so long as they keep civil. They are civil, I hope?”

“As civil as a law book!”

“Then that’s all that matters! You know, Hans, that—oh your mother wishes to talk to you.”

Shuffling, crackling, and hushed instructions were followed by the silvery voice of Mrs. Westergaard that, to her homesick son, represented everything good and kind and wonderful. “How do you do, my love?” she said. “I hope you will henceforth be more mindful of the weather. Chills are no laughing matter. Mrs. Falk is on bedrest after she was caught in a summer storm. Poor woman was soaked through like a dish cloth.”

“Mrs. Falk is an old woman,” said Hans, whose tenderness shifted to mischief especially reserved for his mother. “I am a young man.”

“Mrs. Falk is not so old,” said Mrs. Westergaard. “She is in fact younger than me by six months.”

Children treat their parents differently in accordance with the roles they play and characters they possess. Mr. Westergaard was a man inclined to quiet, turbulent anxiety and depended on affection expressed by his offspring whereas Mrs. Westergaard happily got into heated arguments with her sons and not a pebble weighed on her conscience. Thus, Hans’ reduced gentleness was replaced with increased mischief:

“Allow me to rectify my previous statement: Mrs. Falk is a fragile grown woman afflicted with both delicacy and hypochondria whereas I am a handsome colt entering my first bloom.”

“And I am?”

“And you’re very lucky to have me for a son.”

She shook her head, smirk growing into a grin. “Well, I’d rather you do not take ill away from home. And,” she softened her voice, “I’d like to tell you that should you ever at any moment wish to return home before your year is done then believe me that you will be welcomed with open arms. Do not aggravate your health or nerves with unnecessary stress.”

“Mama, I’m doing perfectly well! My biggest concern today is how I am to justify my absence to Murphy for it has been weeks since we’ve last spoken.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I haven’t even sent him a letter!”

Mrs. Westergaard was thoroughly amused. “I am glad to hear that that is your most pressing concern. You have been working very hard before your illness, and I’d rather you rested a bit more before returning to your delivery duties.”

Normally Hans would have fought with mother for stifling him, yet as he knew she was set against this entire year abroad he was grateful for her having let him go and was not keen on antagonising her. He swore to her that he will put a hiatus to his deliveries for another week, wished her the very best and thanked her for the package, and was glad when his father impatiently wiggled into their conversation.

Mrs. Westergaard bid her son farewell, leaving her husband to take over the phone like a dutiful sentinel. In the kitchens there were the fruits simmering on the stove alongside a potion, blue and bubbling. Realistically, she doubted that Hans would obey her as at his age she defied her parents. Worse, her Hans was not a keen brewer. Due to age and reliance on natural magic, her son did not care to make potions that would enhance his abilities as at home he had his mother to make up for his indifference.

Expertise led her to the kitchen where temperatures were easily controlled and the space clean of knick-knacks. Maternal care meanwhile was responsible for the concoction of fruit and honey: potions were not as delicious as they looked. Even her older sons, witchmen and cursebreakers, grimaced whenever they drank undiluted Black Blood or Tawny Owl. Fruit juice curbed the foul flavour.

To the tune of her husband’s chatter, Kristina Westergaard slowly added spoonfuls of fruit and honey to Starlight – the gentlest of her potions – and set it to cool in the ice box. “The things I do for you,” she addressed the portrait of her sons. She was quite determined to see Hans become a proper potion-brewer, but till then she was happy to provide him with concoctions herself. Better her than someone else.

***

Sitron had spent the past thirty minutes thumping his tail against the counter, listening to Hans speak with his parents and nibbling on a biscuit. The day was spent nicely, though he had to contend with Maximus for the cosiest spot on the couch. When he had heard his friend return from the errand, he excitedly pounced onto his shoulder and together they made the call. Just as Mrs. Westergaard conceded to her husband for phone time, so did Sitron relent and resign himself to patiently waiting till the young wizard finishing his conversation.

“Papa had a lot to say,” he said once the phone was hung on its hooks.

“He must know that I will accept whatever he has to say easier than my brothers,” said Hans, stretching his arms. “This is not too different from when I go around repeating the same thing to various villagers to see how everyone reacts.” He scratched behind Sitron’s ear. “I hope I did not bore you.”

“No, no! I love relaxing and the bakery was slow today; no one has come disturbing us.”

“That’s good, I suppose? Bad for business, but favourable to our landlady. She is entering her final month of pregnancy – it’d be best if she did not stand on her feet all day.”

Sitron and Hans spoke affably, catching up on their day spent apart. The cat was pleasantly surprised to learn of Madam’s scheme, and more pleased yet by how sweetly Hans spoke of Flynn Rider. To another person, the tone would not have implied anything yet Sitron – having witnessed the earlier disdain – found the change to be as stark as night turning to day.

Back in their little home, the kettle whistled on the hob as Hans set the table for tea. Strawberry jam spread thickly on biscuits, sliced apples, and the staple pancakes was their evening nourishment to satiate them till dinner. Through their open window they heard Rapunzel and another girl – presumably her friend Cassandra – work on a school project, the motoric engines of cars grumbling as they drove down the street, and their fashionable neighbour’s wireless crackling as it reported on the dirigible.

“They strike me clumsy,” said Sitron. “What differs them from hot air balloons?”

“I honestly don’t know,” said Hans, pouring himself a cup. “Hot air balloons are simpler in design, are they not? Judging from how much larger they are, I’d assume dirigibles are tough to drive.” He snapped the biscuit, dunking a piece into the tea. “Flynn’s fascinated by them.”

“He cannot fly! Dirigibles are the best way he can reach the Witch’s Field. That is,” Sitron smiled slyly, “unless you’d like to give him a ride?”

“I don’t trust him on the broom,” said Hans, stern. “I do not trust us, really. We destroyed his bicycle completely! I fear that if the two of us are on a broom together then something will happen and we will die.”

“You didn’t die today.”

“Sitron, you know as well as I do that a height of fifteen-twenty metres is incomparable to the Witch’s Field.” Hans emptied his cup. “But do you know whom I trust to come with me beyond the clouds?”

The cat grinned, eyes a-gleaming in twilight. “Shall we?”

“Indeed, we shall!”

Hans sprang to his feet with a toddler’s glee and ran to grab the trusty broom. Sitron, accustomed to these bursts of energy, jumped off the table and counter till he landed on his friend’s shoulder with claws dug into the fabric.

Halfway down the rickety stairs, the wizard flung his legs over the handle and made for the air when—

“What was that?” cried Rapunzel. She had heard a most violent crash and scream outside her window. “Did someone fall?”

“Leave them, Raps!” said her friend. “If it didn’t happen in the courtyard then it doesn’t really concern us.”

Rapunzel popped her head out the window, hoping it was not her mother, and was relieved by its emptiness. “I’d still like to know what it was,” she said.

“And I’d like to finish this science project.” Cassandra rubbed her temples. “I hate this topic. I can’t wait to move onto the next unit.”

Smiling, Rapunzel returned to her friend to console her, perfectly unaware of the sheer terror consuming her dear wizard. Badly bruised and hurting, Hans held the broom so tightly that his knuckles whitened and he ran so quickly Sitron was compelled to squeeze into the vest to spare him any further injuries related to falling. Running and running, running and running, the wizard let his feet take him to the steep side of the hill close to the bakery.

When birds were caught in cages, they flapped and screamed and threw themselves at the bars trapping them with no regard for their own health just to break free into the sky. Having reached the sharp, steep hillside, Hans roughly manhandled his cat out of his vest and placed him on the ground before breaking the promises he had sworn to his parents a mere hour ago: to stay safe and be happy. He was a swallow whose flight had been broken, his foot chained to the ground by invisible shackles and wings cruelly clipped.

To the side, Sitron winced at each failure and the consequential welts forming on the pale skin. Torn grass clung to the wizard as cobwebs did abandoned nooks. The attempts offered varied results: sometimes Hans would plummet to the ground immediately, sometimes he would float a little before gravity brought him down. Resilience and sheer stubbornness entreated him to try again and again till he soared long enough to cross a deep ditch.

And just as hope glimmered like a candle in the wind, Hans finally flew and just as he felt sure in himself, sure that he could and would ascend to the Witch’s Field—

The flame died.

Hans fell.  

Chapter Text

“If I go to the thick woods plucking berries and nuts,
Taking apples from the branches or herding the cows;
If I stretch out under a tree for a while in repose –
Oh, what does it matter to those it does not concern?

If I stretch out under a tree for a while in repose –
Oh, what does it matter to those it does not concern?”

Caladh Nua.

Cars and commuters kicked up dust into the air. It stung his eye, and he was grateful that he had chosen to wear a dark grey linen shirt rather than his usual black garb. He would have to thank his brother as well for gifting him the hat; its wide brim both shielded him from the sun and distracted pedestrians from his unnerving eyepatch.

It was quite the challenge to hitch a ride into the city when drivers thought you were a thief or a murderer. No matter what anyone might claim, prejudices were pervasive and those against eyepatch-wearing men were the most blatant. It might have been easier for their lot if it were not for two ridiculous facts: first being that Corona City was on the coast and second was the existence of adventure stories centred around pirates.

Murphy Stabbington was not terribly bothered. He was patient and used to this treatment. It helped that after he finished his urban errands he could return to the forest in peace, safe in the knowledge that he had done what needed to be done and could rest to his satisfaction. Really, he was less irritated by the callousness of people than by the prolonged absence of a certain wizard boy.

All things considered it should not have been a cause of discomfort that the boy had not called on him once since the fallen toy incident. Many people made plans that were destined to be unfulfilled, fated to be postponed to a Saturday that never came, and this affliction struck even the most diligent of people with a ‘tip-top social calendar.’

But Murphy Stabbington did not have a ‘tip-top social calendar’. He took things as they came (usually in the form of whatever boys and girls with whom his brother caroused around the city) and calmly existed in solitude, rarely itching to speak with people and ‘getting out there’.

So, it weighed heavily on his mind that his singular invitation – or rather the closest thing he had ever offered as an invitation – was ignored. He was not in the habit of having guests and was keenly embarrassed as it sunk into him that the call shall not be answered. When one relished solitude, every unprofessional interaction seemed like a gamble against themselves. As far as Murphy was concerned, he was currently losing and very badly at that.

That was why this young artist brooded pensively on his situation whilst going down a shopping list. Pleasant as it was in the forest and bountiful were its gifts, these boons did not include groceries, hygiene products, and most art supplies. Murphy had bought all he required and spent the noon at his brother’s house on Denhill Lane. Seamus Stabbington was as affectionate as a sibling could be and spoke of his encounter with Rider’s wizard friend.

“You’d seen him?” Murphy was attention itself.

“Yeah, I did,” said Seamus, drinking icy cranberry juice straight from the bottle. “He was hanging out with Rider. I didn’t get to speak to him proper cause he ran off home to call his dad. Said he was ill for a while and was unable to chat with his old folk properly.”

It is generally agreed to be bad behaviour to revel in the illnesses of others, but to Murphy this brought a wave of relief that it is our opinion he ought to be forgiven. Who could blame him? Anyone would be relieved to learn they were neglected because of unfortunate circumstances rather than anything done on their part. Murphy said as much to his brother, who snorted and mocked him with all the love owed to a twin.

The brothers parted with an embrace, promising they would meet each other again before the end of the month. Murphy gathered his belongings and went up a crooked alley flanked with red-roofed houses.

The scorching sun had softened somewhat in the later hours of the day, though as any in his place Murphy looked forward to the coolness of his house. The shade of trees, the gentle forest breeze smelling of elm was preferrable to burning city streets in summer.

Reclining against the stone railing, the artist huffed a tired breath and glanced over the shoulder to admire the sea. The business of the harbour trailed off as the sun moved westwards; one could see ships leave for faraway ports and dockworker readying to go home.

It was a wondrous sight, one that captured the essence of Corona City. Murphy stretched his arms and reached for his sketchbook. The image was far too lovely to ignore.

Unbeknownst to him, a calico cat shared his thoughts from the top of the bakery roof. Sitron had spent the past three days comforting his friend but even he – steadfast and loyal – needed a break from the melancholy threatening to drown everything in their flat.

Hans Westergaard was depressed. No other term could describe his condition better or more accurately than that semi-medical word. His final attempt to fly ended in miserable failure, and as much as the wounds of it hurt his body it was nothing compared to the ache he felt in his heart.

It was a choking, freezing ache that consumed. Just as a man cannot sleep in peace after a robber broke into his home or a woman trust a new suitor after a cruel abandonment, Hans fretted that this one moment of despair was to linger forever until it became the status quo and he accepted it – acceptance was defeat. The question that furiously wormed its way into his mind, tugged at his heart, breathed down his neck was very simple: has he lost his powers for good?

Many hours were spent over the creation of a new broom. Over half of those hours were spent in silent reflection. To Sitron’s chagrin, their little home was rapidly acquiring a sentinel of jars and bottles filled with potions as Hans sought to comfort himself that at least he was still a capable brewer.

Perhaps not as fine as his mother, but leagues better than any mundane person without a hint of magic in their lineage. Mrs. Westergaard had always wanted her son to be a capable potioneer. Sitron wondered how she would react to this sudden diligence shown by her child in crushing snake fangs and harvesting moon-moss who in his thirteen years was content to let her supply the family cabinet independently. It was almost unthinkable until it was not.

Unable to bear anymore of the sorrowful atmosphere, Sitron rubbed his face against Hans’ own impassive one and left him to his own devices. It was too beautiful of a day to be affected with lament. He climbed up to the rooftop, settled on the very edge, and let the sun seep into his very core.

After all, it was the undeniable right of a cat to bask in the warmth of the day as much as he wanted. The salt-streaked air expanded his lungs, caressed his little face, and Sitron yawned to his pleasure as he enjoyed the day. Despite the blue grief under the roof, on it there was no doubt that today was an excellent day to be alive.

Slowly, slowly he opened his eyes and watched the silver-tipped waves curling on the horizon. Then with the dignity of a king he ran his view across the neighbourhood; his attention was caught by none other than Murphy Stabbington, as engulfed in his sketching as Hans was in broom-making.

Back in Knight’s Roost Sitron was fond of observing any patient activity done around the house. A particularly favourite sight was that of Henrik Westergaard at his easel, painting likenesses of his family members. Curiosity had yet to kill this cat, and so Sitron lithely descended from the roof to the cobbled street.

He did not intend to be secretive in his approach, but the issue with wearing a patch over one’s eye was that occasionally one was ignorant to the presence of fast-approaching little calicos. The skittering of claws against the cobbled stones startled Murphy. He took a step backwards in slight alarm, then sighed at the silliness for being spooked by such a small creature. “Well,” he muttered to himself, “aren’t you a snapshot of that toy.”

Sitron widened his eyes. Here was a sturdy, broad-shouldered solution to the overflowing despair in his house! If this fellow was whom Sitron believed him to be then—Good heavens! And how wonderful it was that Hans was far too proper a boy to wallow in misery when there was a neglected acquaintance to entertain! Sitron meowed loudly, beckoned the artist to follow him with a sly raise of the brows and mischief glance.

Perfectly ignorant of the true feline plan, Murphy packed away his sketchbook and followed the little thing to the bakery courtyard under the impression that there was some trouble with which it needed help. He certainly did not expect to hear an angry gasp, a playful meow, and the loud bang of an abused door. This was exactly why he preferred the forest.

“Murphy!”

Never mind that!

Hans, pale with the mortification of apparent neglect, stood atop the staircase with wide eyes and a rapidly rising chest. It was obvious to anyone that he had not expected company. Never the one to disappoint the title of gentleman, however, the young wizard (with great effort) summoned a smile and rushed down the stairs two steps at a time. “I hope you have been doing well, Murphy!” He reached to shake his hand. “You’ve met Sitron already, I see. Isn’t he just the spitting image of that doll?”

“That him?” Murphy glanced at the cat, who wore a righteously self-proud expression on his little face. Tilting his head, he added, “Can see why he acted decoy in place of the doll.”

Hans smiled wider. “He was very obedient that day; was a perfect dolly,” he spoke through gritted teeth. Sitron meowed and rested his head upon his paws. Shaking his head, Hans went for the safest of sentences: “Would you like a cup of tea? That’s my home right there – you can have a look at how wizards live.”

And though he had tea (in the loose sense of the word) with his brother less than a quarter of an hour ago, Murphy found himself agreeing to the proposition. “Gladly,” he said, and the earnestness of his answer drove away the cold that had taken hold of Hans’ blood as of late.

“Well then,” said the wizard cheerily, “let’s go!”

Sitron jumped onto Hans’ chest for a cuddle, his purring deep and warm.

***

One would imagine that with his manners and appearances, Hans Westergaard had emerged fully-formed from the pages of a storybook. Indeed one could argue that that was indeed his backstory: Fifteen Lionheart Lane was a beautiful home as we have firmly established, and its residents were respectability itself.

This was an undisputable truth in the eyes of the powers that were, yet it was met with dry humour by one Murphy Stabbington, who leaned against the windowsill of the attic flat and smiled at the little knick-knacks associated with country homes, wondering how every illustrator would be furious.

Their wizards and witches lived in ruined towers with dozens of strange plants, hundreds of disgusting jars and vials, and a thousand dusty tomes like Advanced Potion-Making or Curses Moste Foule to amuse the resident magicker (always grey and hunched and withered) in-between transforming lost travellers into hedgehogs and tossing into cauldron milk teeth and locks of hair harvested from virgin maids. That was the image most in Corona City associated with magical folk.

Hans Westergaard tottered around his little apartment, fussing over the dust he had in his depression forgot to wipe and smoothing the tablecloth over the table and opening tins of jams to serve with the scones.

He was of course dressed in his customary butter-yellow shirt, purple trousers, and pale blue waistcoat – the same outfit he wore when he had first met Murphy. Instead of harvesting any teeth or hair or blood, he lifted a jar of apricot jam and tutted.

“I’m afraid I cannot offer you my mother’s famous cherry jam,” apologised the wizard. “Someone had the audacity to devour all of it.”

From the corner of his eye, Murphy thought he saw the cat slip out of the window. He took a seat at the table, telling him he did not mind, and took a sip of the tea. “I heard you were sick,” he said.

Hans nodded. “I’d the misfortune of flying in the rain and was so tired afterwards I had no strength to take a bath or even wipe myself down with a towel. Just went to bed wholly drenched!” He laughed awkwardly. “The result of this one-time decision was my being out of commission for two weeks. I would have visited you sooner if I were not bedbound. I am sorry if you thought I was ignoring you on purpose.”

“It’s not an issue,” said Murphy, for whom this was very much an issue for very many days. It did not matter anymore. “Important thing is you’re healthy now. Now, what’s that I hear about eagles and Rider?”

“Ah, has your brother kept you informed?” Hans laughed and sat down beside Murphy rather than across the table. “My mother keeps two as her familiars. Their relationship is a bit different than mine with Sitron, more formal. Sitron was presented to me on my ninth birthday by my father, who actually had no idea he could talk. It was quite a fright when we gave him a bowl of water and he instead requested milk. He is my first familiar. Perhaps that is why we are closer than most.”

“Do familiars live long?”

“They live longer than regular animals, yes. My mother’s first familiar was a barn owl. They typically live for four year buts hers celebrated seventeen birthdays till it passed. Her eagles – Henrietta and Heloise – are eighteen years old each though one would never guess it with how much energy they have. People do not often associate the adverb ‘scampering’ with those noble birds.” Hans poured Murphy another cup. “It’s something to do with the bond between a wizard or witch and their familiar. I think the magic from the former elongates the existence of the latter.”

Murphy hummed, already conjuring possible paintings from this theory. “Could you measure the magic of a wizard by the lifespan of his animal?”

“I…That is an excellent question!” Hans was thoughtful. “To my mind, it should be possible yet I’m not sure if anyone has systematically tried to measure the lifespans of familiars and the strength of the respective wizard. It’d be rather rude, don’t you think? I would not want anyone inquiring every year as to whether Sitron has died and uh how that—how that would reflect on my,” he slowed, “abilities.”

“I’m sure your cat will live for many years.” Murphy smiled. “Speaking of, how’s your delivery business going?”

The crumple that nearly overtook Hans’ bright, starry face was hint enough that it, albeit well-intentioned, was the wrong question to ask. But it had been asked, and Hans determined to answer it as regret at the earlier supposed neglect still held its throne in his mind.

Thankfully, Murphy was a good listener compared to both Rapunzel and Flynn Rider and most wizards in fact: he did not interrupt with ungainly inquiries and unwanted comments, he nodded at the exact times when a nod was required, and as he had never had magic of his own he was not inwardly preoccupied with fantasizing ‘Oh what if I lose my magic?’ scenarios in which Hans would have indulged wholeheartedly had he not been in his current position.

Needing to prove himself sane and justified, Hans fished out the broken broom from behind the closet to display to Murphy. “My mother will be furious,” he said sadly. “She’d given it to me because it was tried and true and tested – bound to keep me safe in flight. I made myself a new one like I’d always wanted but…if I could not manage my mother’s experienced broom then I have catastrophically low expectations of my new steed.”

Murphy inspected the damaged vehicle. It had been nastily-broken with splinters and raw edges sticking out like nettles in a bush. “Did you hurt yourself badly? When you fell?”

“I had a few bruises here and there – nothing worth mentioning.” Hans dropped onto his seat and released a long, pensive breath. No mermaids splashed in the green of his eyes. “I’d suffer a hundred bruises if it meant I could fly again.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” muttered Murphy, setting aside the monument of failure. He folded his arms and regarded the lamenting young wizard, a different creature to the snappy, merry boy who had bickered with the crows. He disliked the change that had occurred during their separation and resolved to do something about it.

How lucky it was that magic was often claimed to be an art form!

“Listen,” began Murphy, “why don’t you come stay over mine for a few days?”

Hans blinked and furrowed his brows. “What? Why?”

Murphy shrugged. “Artists and delivery boys ought to stick together. What you’re describing’s not far-off from something called artist’s block. Your brother ever tell you about that?”

“No, but I have an inkling as to what it may mean. Henrik occasionally insists he cannot go on drawing, lays half-dead in his room for an hour, goes back to his easel, snaps at all of us for ‘irritating’ him, and just sits at his easel as if he wishes to draw but doesn’t before going back to his room where he continues to suffer.”

“That’s it,” said Murphy, smirking. “You’re having the delivery boy’s version of it.”

“Oh, I think mine is far more serious!” Hans exclaimed, though truthfully he was relieved to hear the metaphor. His brother Henrik would be incapable of art for some time and everyone paid for it as his mood soured.

Then one miraculous day he sketched away for hours on end and all was well. Hans was chuffed by the prospect of a burst of magic, yet he would not show it outwardly and certainly not in front of Murphy – he ought to be dignified about it! “I shall ask Madam Arianna if I might be excused for a day—”

“A week,” interjected Murphy. “It’ll take a while to get to my place. You’ll want a week.” He gave a small smile. “I don’t bite.”

Hans laughed. “I never even thought of you biting me! A week then! Hopefully Rapunzel can cover my shifts since her school break is soon to commence. Shall I bring Sitron with me or will the crows object?”

“I’ll stay home!” meowed Sitron, who snorted at how Murphy jumped. It was always shocking to people when he spoke with words even with warning. “You two will be up to all sorts of stuff and I’d rather not be in the sole company of crows who have proven themselves capable of ripping off my head.”

“Don’t be rude, Sitron!” scolded Hans with a chuckle. “The crows are at this point Murphy’s familiars. Besides, how would they hurt you like they did the toy? You’re made of flesh and blood, not cloth and stuffing.”

The cat sniffled. “I don’t want to risk it,” was his response.

Hans rolled his eyes with gusto and laughed.

***

With Madam Arianna’s blessings, Hans packed his belongings into his messenger bag. In went his nightshirt and slippers, his toiletries (lemon oil included!), a book, and the remaining jars of jam that would otherwise be under the threat of one little calico cat.

It was certainly not the first time had the wizard spent beneath the roof of another – this whole year he slept in a bed that was not his own in a house owned by a pair with no connection to Knight’s Roost – but it would be the first time he would spend a week with someone who was not kin to him. When one was born to a family of twelve brothers and boasted twice as many cousins, there always was a relative to lend a helping hand.

Murphy Stabbington’s hand was just as helpful and reliable: he listened to Hans talk and point at urban features he thought were fascinating, kept him from dashing across the road, shared usage of his wide-brimmed hat – a gesture anyone with their pale complexions would appreciate – and treated him to sweets the moment they boarded the bus out of town.

Not a single pedestrian who saw Hans that day would have guessed that the boy was actually feeling a smidge out-of-sorts; his enthusiastic nature often disguised the aspect of his personality that wanted to know what exactly was going to occur and how he ought to conduct himself in any possible situation. He probably did not even notice his increased chatter was borne out of a need to fill the air lest his mind wander back to the broken broom.

Beside him, Murphy sat in quiet attention as Hans went into a descriptive account of wraiths with which his curse-breaker brother had to recently fight. Although Murphy was a clandestine, silent sort of fellow, it would be false to believe him of bearing an anti-conversational agenda.

That was not the case in the slightest! To whom he was dearest it was known that Murphy enjoyed conversations and gatherings as much as any merry soul. His one integral requirement for any enjoyment was for people not to expect him to contribute too much in terms of speaking.

He was happiest sitting by a fire with a cup of strong ale in his hand and his brother roaring with laughter beside him. Seamus and he were as harmonious as oak and ash (and Flynn Rider was the thorn that invited himself into their hollow), yet as Murphy handed Hans another piece of candy he suspected there might be room yet in the garden for another tree.

“Isn’t it so very horrid?” said Hans, covering his mouth as he chewed on the sweet. “I should die of fright if I ever encounter a wraith or a spectre. Any clever person would choose to face cannibals, snakes, or maybe even men with pointy teeth.”

Murphy snorted. “Rather deal with a cannibal than a ghost?”

“Cannibals are flesh-and-blood creatures, and they do not have a nasty habit of apparating here and there and everywhere,” said Hans confidently. “You would be better off fighting cannibals than wraiths. While I’ve none in my acquaintance, I am sure they do not have to be trapped with magical signs and repeatedly scourged with spells. A good stab would deal with them.”

Murphy smiled. “A good stab would deal with most people.”

“You have not met my brothers!” Hans returned the smile. “I think a stab in the gut would sooner send Maron into a frenzy. He’s my twelfth brother.”

Twelve brothers, thought Murphy reverently. “Can’t even imagine having more than just the one.”

“Have you no other siblings beside Seamus?”

Murphy shook his head. Hans hummed as he filed away the new fact into its appropriate place in his mind. “I cannot imagine the reverse. My eldest brother, however strange it is for me ponder, was at some point an only child. I was delivered with siblings already in the hallway waiting to see me.

"The girl whose parents board me is expecting a sibling this year and as excited as she is to have a brother or sister, I don’t think she’ll really understand what it is like to grow up with siblings. Not for a few years, definitely. And with thirteen years separating them, it would be cruel if she did to her sibling what Maron had done to me as a toddler.” Hans caught the flash of curiosity shown by Murphy and drily added, “When I was three years old, he told me the reason our grandparents have wrinkles was because the Devil was slowly pulling them to Hell.”

Unfortunately, Murphy had decided to take a sip of water at that very moment. He graciously bowed his head to avoid the looks given by the other passengers of the bus and let Hans wipe his chest with a handkerchief. “Well,” he said amidst his coughs and splutters, “your brother sounds fun.”

“If there is a silver lining to his little pranks it was that I learned to speak at a very young age,” said Hans with an ironic edge. “My father supposes it was because my need to complain was stronger than that of any other child who does not have Maron for an older brother.”

“Be grateful it’s not Seamus you lived with,” chuckled Murphy. “Once he convinced me it’d be the nicest thing in the world to play football out in the fields. We played for less than fifteen minutes when some farmer threatened to fire at us with his shotgun.”

“Shotgun?!”

“He was…” Murphy bit back a grin. “He nicely gave us ten seconds to scram.”

“Goodness gracious, it is not as if you were stealing his chickens! I am a defender of private property as my family is landed, but to point a shotgun at boys!”

“Your village must be kinder than those fields.” Murphy snorted and chuckled at the scrunched, almost-revolted expression worn by his companion. He had not the heart to tell him of other Stabbington exploits, most of which broke one law on the minimum and involved some form of thievery. Better he sat back to enjoy more tales from that quaint little village where a matronly witch reigned supreme from her illustrious home and a ruined castle where children and lovebirds played on misty days.

They exited the station smacked between the city and the beyond. Hans laughed at the strange faces and murmurs he heard on the way down the steps, people looking at him wide-eyed trying to figure out whether he was actually a wizard child or (to them the likelier option) a strange child too interested in the supernatural.

“It tickles me to know that not every town or city has a resident sorcerer,” he chuckled. “Since my mother has resided in Knight’s Roost for many decades now both as the local witch and the gentleman’s wife people always come knocking at our door and have gotten used to seeing less-than-mundane phenomenon: four years back we kept a caged ghoul in the cellar since my mother needed its venom for her potions research. It was alright. For the most part.”

“For the most part?”

“For the most part,” said Hans firmly, a sly smile promising the story for another time. “I’d rather hear how we are to reach your house from this open road. I know the general location but as I had mapped it with the idea of flying a broom…”

Hans’ expression fell and he rapidly became listless. Not wishing for the mood dampen, Murphy exerted himself to pick up the slack of the conversation and was glad to see the wizard lighten. He told him how they were to get to his house; the notion of ‘hitching a ride’ being entirely alien to Hans, who innocently said he assumed it was something odd that only occurred in the pictures or radio dramas.

“Not odd at all,” said Murphy, raising a thumb to signal for a car.

“Yes, it is,” said Hans. “And I think it’s dangerous. What if the driver is abnormal?”

“Abnormal…how?”

Hans shrugged. “I don’t know. Say he’s a hooligan.”

Murphy bit the lining of his cheek to refrain from bursting into laughter. To him the word ‘hooligan’ smacked decidedly of old men shouting at the youth from their porches. It smelled of gunpowder and sounded like the cry of that cranky farmer with his shotgun aimed at two orphans.

Alleyway boys like himself were mildly aware of a world existing outside of their neighbourhoods and Murphy was partial to it, especially his little nook in the forest, but the image of a gaggle of countryside children saying hooligan was too much for him to take seriously. Wizards, vampires, and ghouls were well and good, but hooligan?

Most motorists barely acknowledged them. Were he alone then Murphy would have chosen to walk home on foot – it was easier than waiting for a kind driver – yet Hans, who had also raised a signal, was wide-eyed with anticipation that he resigned to wait. Hopefully, the presence of a waistcoat-wearing child would soften the heart of some old driver. One who was not a hooligan.

Patience was a virtue. Patience also expressed itself differently given the situation. Hans had a limitless supply of it when waiting on his parents: he would stamp scores of letters for them by hand when he would prefer to ride horses in the fields. He had dangerously little of it on the side of the road, fighting to urge to frown and possible appear displeased (lest Murphy thought the displeasure was directed at him). It was quite the test of upbringing and nature to make merry in the face of exhaust fumes.

Eventually, closer to three o’clock, an old moustachioed man in an ancient, broken-down truck agreed to take them the distance. Hans hopped into the car eagerly, immediately made conversation with the driver, and kept looking out of all the windows to see the fields and the meadows encircling the city.

The foreign landscapes were familiar. Cows grazed the fields and a swineherdess waved at them – a gesture reciprocated by the wizard. There were also other automobiles to admire! Knight’s Roost was an old village built in the era of pedestrians, horsemen, and carriages. The roads were semi-cobbled and any driver had to be precocious to neither spook the horses nor anger the residents with the growls of a faulty engine. Farmers were inclined towards practicality than fashion anyway.

That noon marked the first time Hans laid eyes on a sports car. It was the cardinal red of the storefront shoes and many years hence the wizard would remember how it glinted in the sunlight.

Paths were parted at the edge of the forest. Hans and Murphy thanked then the driver, who kindly thank them for the company provided. Thus ended the second leg of their journey. The third commenced with a jaunty romp through the woods (for Hans; Murphy took serious care of the bags held) and a wizard’s song about the might of the oak, ash, and thorn.

However small in size compared to forests elsewhere, the woods near Corona City were healthy and hale with trees of every kind and sort. It was pleasure itself for Hans. He who had been commanded by his unbending mother to learn the properties of plants now eagerly identified them for his friend.

“Be careful with elms, Murphy,” said Hans, plucking the leaf off one. “You’ve a great many around your house. Beware they don’t drop their limbs on your head when you take shade beneath them. Actually don’t ever lie beneath an elm – it hates mankind. Elves are fond of it for this reason.”

“Do elves exist or is it just…?”

“They exist!” said Hans brightly. “It’s just very hard to find them these days what with urbanisation taking hold of these lands. Since you live in the forest, take my advice and never investigate the source of strange music or follow shimmering lights once the sun has set. Oh, look! It’s your house!”

Indeed there was the artist’s house as it was the day the wizard came searching for the plush cat. Murphy slipped into the house to put the kettle on. Hans paused several steps short of the porch to apologise to the sitting crows on the roof. “Good day,” he greeted. “I do apologise for the distress caused at our last meeting. You and the eggs have been in excellent health, I hope?”

The crows cawed their assent.

“Brilliant! I’m so very glad to hear that.”

Chapter Text

“The world is so full of a number of things,
I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.”

Robert Louis Stevenson.

Hans staggered back a few steps, stunned and shocked and silenced. His back hit squarely against the wooden walls of the artist’s cottage, startling the artist himself who dropped the empty kettle on the floor to tend to his guest. Yet no sooner had he tried to direct Hans to the window-side bed than the latter reanimated at once with slaps and sighs and gasps a-plenty.

“What? What is it?” asked Murphy with earnest concern.

“Murphy! Murphy, what—how, when?” Hans flailed his hands about him and, as excited blood rushed to his face, pointed at the canvas that had greeted his entrance. “Is that me? Murphy, have you drawn me? It looks like me!”

Vain though he was by birth, the wizard was not so afflicted with the vice as one might presume from later retellings of the incident. The painting that had astounded him was truly beautiful; and in the defence of Hans Westergaard, the figure depicted bore a genuine likeness to him.

In a swirling sea of royal colours swam a merlad adorned with seashells and pearls with a whole flock of goldfish about his person – an underwater prince accompanied by his loyal courtiers. His auburn hair – an exact match to Hans’ own – was as long as that of any country maid herding her sheep, and the invisible currents pulling and pushing those long locks gave the impression that the merlad cut through the cold blue sea as a torch through darkness.

The raw delight expressed by the wizard was the best compliment ever received by the artist. As a slight blush tinged his cheeks, Murphy reached to rub the back of his neck and nodded. “It is you. Or well your likeness.”

“I’m in awe!” Hans wasted not a second to give it a thorough examination. “I do recall you asking me to model for you but I see it was plainly unnecessary as you’ve got everything right, I’d say! Oh, Murphy,” he turned to face the creator, “it’s lovely! It’s gorgeous! It’s nothing like I had ever seen before in my life!”

“Ain’t your brother…?”

“Henrik is a trained landscapist. He rarely if ever draws portraits, and when he does it must always be realistic and proper as taught by the school (whose principles you will find very funny to know he scorns). This is,” Hans sighed and carefully touched the canvas, “this is wondrous. Marvellous. But you must answer me this: why a merman?”

By this point in the conversation, Murphy had gone back to putting the kettle on and was fetching two mugs from the cupboard. He shrugged in his motions, carefully ensuring his face was unseen by the wizard. Murphy was sure he wore a very strange expression right now, giddiness being a rare visitor in his heart, and he would rather keep it to himself. “Remembered you saying that the seaside reminded you of home.” Taking in a deep breath, he bit his lip to summon his composure and moved to stand next to his friend. Like most painters, Murphy still picked out imperfections within his own work which were a cause of incessant annoyance to him. “I’ve been wanting to paint a sea creature for some months now.”

“I imagine the crows did not like it.”

He huffed. “I soothed them with raisins and all was forgiven. They’re my usual subjects, anyway. They’ll live.”

“I see,” said Hans, slily spotting two crows hopping about the outer windowsill. “I should like to see your sketches of them. Wings, I heard, are difficult to draw.” After receiving an affirmative nod, the wizard continued, “But why a mermaid of all the sea creatures? And why me as a model? Not that I’m offended, of course not, but I just did not expect…Well, my brother does not even like drawing me all that much compared to our other siblings. Henrik claimed it was not ‘interesting enough’. He had to appease me with lemon ice afterwards.”

“I get what he’s saying but,” said Murphy at the look Hans threw him, “but I like to draw pretty people. Some folks like odd-looking wretches because their features are distinct.” He smirked. “Bet he would like to draw me and my patch, eh?”

“It is a curious feature on one so young,” was the diplomatic answer of the gentleman.

Murphy hummed. Then as the kettle whistled he left the unspoken question lingering in the air and poured them tea. Although Corona City had been hot, almost stifling him with its heat, the forest was pleasantly cool with a slight breeze ushering in a chill scent of evergreens. Hans watched him with great interest, yet the focus was not as Murphy had expected to be solely on his hidden eye but rather his entire face.

The quiet intrigue reminded the latter of smug little cats or vainglorious birds with vocabulary enough to torment any pirate. Often it was the case that people admired qualities similar to their own. Certainly, Hans loved the society of like-minded merrymakers – was not he the boy whose dancing habits brought many a bread loaf to the tables of his local cobblers? – and Murphy respected anyone who was not prone to wasting their breaths.

It was strange that they were so content together, yet my reader will remember that the sun and the moon love each other as dearly as birds of a feather.

These friends had many an activity on their list to be fulfilled. Immediately after they had rested from their commute with a cup of tea to nourish their souls, Murphy took him by the hand and lead them to the rooftop where he wanted to sketch the handsome country-mannered boy.

Hans, ever eager for anything related to him, tried his best to be an ideal model. One might think sitting still is not a challenge, however, they must remember that the permanent occupants of the rooftop was a flock of crows.

Gathering around Murphy like a crowd of familiars, they watched the wizard with their beady black eyes and eventually decided to hop around him too. One young crow slowly, carefully, sneakily climbed up Hans’ arm to perch upon his shoulder.

“They’ve forgiven me rather quickly,” said Hans, massaging the shoulder blades of a crow seated on his lap. “I would have expected crows to be able to hold a grudge.”

“How could they hold one against you?” Murphy roughly shaded the sketch of the wizard with the crows all around him – that was definitely a painting he will bring to life later. “None ever spoke so nicely to them as you did apologising.”

“It would not do for us to be on bad terms. Especially not when I shall be visiting you oftener once I…”

“Looking forward to the calls then,” finished Murphy for him. It was a dangerous game letting Hans do all the talking: the mind will stray to whatever ached the heart. “Tell me about the countryside. Never been there.”  

As it was a topic dear to his heart, Hans had no trouble delving into the minutest details of his rustic life. First and foremost he proved himself a gentleman’s son by discussing the merits of the Westergaard lands and house; afterwards he expanded the scope to include the whole village with its partially cobbled streets, the hills as round and sloping as the sheep grazing them, and the stormgrass meadows leading directly to the golden sands of the beach.

Being of a more grounded persuasion, Murphy asked after the less idyllic aspects of life (slower progress, lack of public transportation, and in the case of Knight’s Roost isolation from cultural hubs) upon which Hans dutifully elaborated if with less enthusiasm.

Once Murphy had completed the sketches he desired, he closed the notepad and – to Hans’ distress – jumped off the roof to land safely on his feet. “What are you doing?” demanded the young gentleman. “You could have torn your clothes!”

Therein was the difference between gentlemen’s sons and alleyway waifs. Murphy tossed the notepad onto his bed through the open window and, raising his arms, told Hans that if he’d like he could jump down too. “I’ll catch you.”

Despite his earlier scolding, Hans swiftly rose to his feet and jumped into Murphy’s arms with a peal of laughter shaking the leaves.

Thrilled by the first two hours of his stay at the cottage, the wizard had just about forgotten his broomish woes as Murphy guided him to the nearby lake where he liked to fish. Armed with two lines and a bucket of worms, they spent the remainder of the day by the lake where Murphy fished (Hans refused point-blank to have anything to do with the bait) for their supper as his friend plucked watery herbs to add to their table.

Any fisher will say with a strange sort of pride that the act of fishing is a slow one. Having already caught several perches, Murphy showed himself an able hand at the rod with the patience to match. He repeatedly offered to deal with the bait himself if Hans was squeamish about it, yet it was met with kind refusal. “I prefer hunting.”

Murphy furrowed his brow. “Hunting,” he repeated.

“We hunt at home,” said Hans with a smile. “It’s a noble sport.”

“You’ve…hunted. Like with a rifle?”

Here Hans pinkened slightly. “Not exactly. My father and elder brothers go shooting in autumn. I like to come along and watch them fire their shotguns into the sky. Then my mother prepares a supper of pheasants in the evening. It’s all very cosy. I have hunted down some smaller game when permitted to handle a firearm.”

“I can imagine,” said Murphy, whose evening autumn meals were no different to what he usually ate throughout the year. “Sure you wouldn’t like to catch a fish?”

Hans pursed his lips, a disdainful glance thrown at the squirming worms in the bucket. “Well, since you are this insistent at my participation it will be rude to be reject it again. You’ll have to put the bait for me.”

Murphy smiled. “’Course.”

***

No fuel was spared on their return home. Hans clearly had no love for fishing, and though Murphy reassured him the mistakes committed were nothing unusual he suspected the wizard will not be tearing to the lakeside for another go at the rod. The boy had caught a perch and was extremely proud of it, true, though whatever flash of pleasure it brought him was snuffed out upon trying to remove it off the hook.

Not only had the perch slapped Hans on his cheek, but their skirmish ended with the perch thrown against a tree and the wizard in the lake. Murphy then packed everything up and held Hans’ hand as they hurried home. There he had heated water over the stove with which Hans with the aid of a washcloth cleaned himself of the lakeside grime.

Lacking a spell to dry his clothes that moment, the wizard was forced to don his nightwear far sooner then he would have liked – it was only twilight! While thus concerned with his soaked clothes and whether they would dry by morning, Murphy pulled out the spare blankets from the depth of his closet to wrap up his friend. On top of the extra layers, he made sure to seat Hans near the gas fire. Had he pushed him any closer to the heat then the latter’s legs would have become red as June berries.

In the lull of evening as the sun gathered her flyaway hairs into a nightcap and the moon unbound hers for revelries, Murphy descaled and gutted and salted the fish for them to eat. It was quiet in the house yet not unpleasantly. It was not the sort of silence that lived within the walls of the unhappy, not when it was as heavy as sorrowful skies in want of rain, where the tension grew taut like a bowstring just waiting to be released in hopes of lashing out at some unfortunate; it was more akin to true contentment experienced by those who took the time to listen to the morning birds sing.

Settled prettily by the gas fire, Hans immersed himself in one of the books he had bought with Rapunzel on an outing to the shops. It was a traveller’s account of northern lands, including that of Arendelle.

Every now and then the wizard wondered what turn his life would have taken had he chosen to fly straight north rather than follow the north-eastern coastline that took him to Corona City. I do wonder what elementals are like, he thought idly. But then I would never have met all my friends here.

They ate supper right there on the floor like storybook travellers. Hans nibbled on his bread and his fish, making light conversation that was less a discussion than it was a reflection of their first day. Murphy had made them both large mugs of tea which they also enjoyed on the floor. As the kettle boiled, he fashioned himself a mat for him to sleep on as he had given his bed to Hans. “Custom, isn’t it?” he said at the start of protestations. “Best bed goes to the guest, and I’ve no other.”

So there the friends sat on the floor, warmed by shared company and honeyed tea. Murphy lied prostrate on his mat; Hans sat next to him with his legs crossed in the Ottoman style. “How is it that you came to be an artist?” asked the latter.

Murphy hummed. “I don’t know,” was his honest answer. “I didn’t draw much as a child. Didn’t even doodle on the margins of papers.”

“But something must have sparked an interest within you to pursue the arts.”

“Mhm. That’s exactly what happened. A spark.” Murphy set his bended arms flat on the pillow and rested his chin atop them. “We were dragged to an art gallery once, me and my brother, and we just took it as an excuse to miss out on a school day. Went through each hall and each one had all sorts of paintings, obviously,” he chuckled. “Then at the back of the building in one of the last rooms I saw a portrait of a girl.” Murphy took a sip of his tea, though less out of thirst than a want for a moment to parse through his thoughts. “She was different to the other pictures. All the other models were serious, stern, and…dishonest.”

“And that girl?”

“That girl she looked straight at you,” said Murphy, corners of his lips quirking upwards. “Her smile was very pretty and true, I think. Not a lot of beauty where I came from so I was struck. Next day told my brother that I want coloured pencils.” Which the Stabbingtons subsequently stole from a stationery shop, though that part of the story was not to be shared with his guest.

“Would I then be correct to assume you think me as very pretty, seeing that you’ve drawn a merfolk with my face as a basis?”

“You’d be right.”

Unexpectedly to Murphy, the young wizard grew an alarming shade of red and began to laugh as he thanked for the kind words. The reaction was strange to the artist as he had the correct impression of Hans being absolutely aware of his beauty, but to hear it so candidly spoken was still a shock to that young boy who at home had to work very hard for praise from unwilling siblings and a demanding mother (his father was more than happy to shower him in it).

A strange thought lit up in his head, and under normal circumstances he would have snuffed it out as it was by his standards inappropriate. But as Murphy had been kind to him and, more importantly, was candid with him even with his compliments he guessed it must be alright then to reciprocate.

“I think you are handsome yourself,” said Hans, eyes averted. “Earlier today you grouped yourself with the odd-looking people artists like to draw, yet if you asked me I would say my brother would like to draw you not because you are odd-looking – because you are not – but because you are striking. Mysterious is a good word for you with your dark clothes and crows and patch.” Primly, in a tone one might use when complimenting lacework, he added, “I think it’s charming.”

Here Murphy felt a red flush rise from up chest and neck to his face. He nodded and quietly thanked Hans for the praise given. “Not every day I’m called handsome by a wizard, you know.”

“You better get used to it quickly, Murphy. And once my magic has returned to me in its entirety, I’m going to stop being lazy with charm work and transfiguration and show you everything that I can do with my gifts.”

“Have you got a wand to do spells with? They even a thing?”

“They are a thing, but not everybody uses them. They help with channelling magic for more complicated charms and spells.” Hans rubbed the palm of his right hand with his left thumb. “My family mostly gets by with plain hand gestures, but we have them should a need arise. I am supposed to get mine on my fifteenth birthday.”

“I’ll have to sketch you when you get it,” said Murphy. “Then I’ll paint you again. Actually you, not a merman.”

Hans smirked. “And what will you call your painting of me?”

“Don’t know.” Murphy looked up to a warm, friendly smile and cheerful eyes; a name immediately wrote itself out in his head. “Maybe something like Portrait of a Wizard in His Youth.”

“Why specify my youth?”

“It won’t be the only portrait of you I’ll paint. Eventually there will be portraits of a wizard as a young man, a groom, a father, etc. Gotta start somewhere.”

“You intend to capture my entire life!”

Murphy set their empty cups to the side and reached to dim the lamplight. “So long as you let me.”

“What kind of question is that, Murphy? Of course, I’ll let you. I’ll remind you of this conversation should ever you forget your plans!”

They each went to bed peacefully that night, their heads filled with pleasant dreams of mermaids and perches and elderly wizards sharing the company of elderly artists.

***

Over the course of the week, Hans and Murphy delighted in shared larks in the forest. They went fishing again on the condition that the wizard would not hold a rod, they had long conversations with the crows, they listened to the rustling trees sing their secret songs and watched the sky dance with colourful ribbons streaking her hair. They quickly fell into a routine switching between contented silence and chatty outbursts of energy.

During their haunts to the lake, Hans would fill the air with poets’ works and country love-songs; when they walked in the gloom of nature Murphy would hold his hand and guide him over hidden ditches. One afternoon towards the end of the week, when the wizard was stricken with a fancy for movement, he had grabbed the artist and with the strength of his whole form pulled him into a woodland dance.

To a surprise that Murphy thought unwarranted, the latter was no dancer of any kind. “What do you mean you do not dance? Everyone dances,” insisted Hans.

Murphy shook his head. Hans made a face.

“Do not lie to me.”

“Am not,” said Murphy, arms folded as he retreated from the grove that his friend decided would be a ballroom. “Why would I know how to dance?”

“There is nothing merrier in the world than dancing. That is why everyone ought to at least two dances – formal and informal.” Hans cocked his head. “You’re being serious right now, Murphy?”

“Dead serious. They don’t teach ‘em dances in the city.” Unless, of course, one was innately addicted to rhythm or had the good luck of parents sending them to classes.

“Then what do you do for entertainment in the city?”

Murphy smiled. “Mooch about the streets. Like hooligans.”

“Well, that will not do at all!” Hans took off his waistcoat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Then with a dagger-straight back he approached Murphy with his right arm extended. “I will teach you. Everyone in the village knows how to dance. I’m sure if our most coltish of farmers can do jigs then so can you.” Just as Murphy opened his mouth, Hans added, “I will not take no for an answer, sir.”

Teaching dances is a difficult business in general, let alone without music or hardwood floors to tap out the beat. As a young boy, Hans was taught his jigs and reels by standing on his mother’s feet as she showed him the moves. It was out of the question for Murphy to stand on his feet now, yet we must praise the enthusiasm with which the wizard taught his friend the basics of a favourite dance in Knight’s Roost.

The jig required a lot of space which was kindly provided by the grove as the pair hopped to and fro the grass, marking the borders with a stomp of the leg. Then the moves required they spin around with their arms clasping in a criss-cross pattern. Completing this first step, the moves were repeated again though with the positions reserved: Hans was laughing heartily as he held Murphy’s waist from behind in the second round of the jig.

The third round they did not reach as Murphy tripped over himself and fell to the ground. Not the one to abandon his friend, Hans plopped right next to him. His laughter rang through the woods, catching the attention of curious squirrels and sparrows.

“Not bad at all for your first try!” he praised. “Next dance I will teach you will be the gavotte.”

“Let’s learn this one first,” said Murphy, eyes shut. “Why do you like dancing so much anyway?”

Hans rolled onto his stomach and propped up his elbows. Flushed from exertion, he smiled a cocky grin. “Because it’s fun, Murphy. It’s fun! A cheerful dance quickens the blood and makes everyone happy.” More serious, he asked, “Did you not enjoy it?”

Murphy wanted a glance at Hans’ face. He opened his eye then sat up because the wizard had decided to lay to his left. “Didn’t say that,” was his answer at the concerned expression. “Just seems…a lot.”

“I would rather dance all day, every day than—what was it you said? ‘Mooch about the streets’?”

Chuckling, the artist agreed that dancing was more fun than idling around alleyways. Murphy was by experience partial towards the virtues of sitting around a backstreet with a gang of boys, each smoking or drinking cheap beer when policemen looked the other way.

He supposed that was impossible: Hans told him of old women who, being on top of their daily affairs, expanded their attention to neighbouring youths and were not afraid to throw around slippers. People were lost in cities – they came and went to the whistles of passing trains – but in villages it was impossible to be a stranger. Regardless of whether you were accepted into the fold or shunned to the margins, you were watched.

“Should you ever come to Knight’s Roost,” said Hans, “I will take you to the tearoom where we will have tea with cakes too fussy to be made at home. Then in the evening I will take you (whether you like it or not) to our only inn where there is a ballroom. It’s useless most of the time as our only visitors are relatives who are hosted by their families, but once a season we deck it out to the finest degree and have our balls. Everyone attends those and if you are to go with me then you must know two jigs.”

“I could sketch the villagers,” said Murphy quietly. He began to picture several compositions depending on the size of the ballroom and the dress of the merrymakers. He wondered if the other denizens of Knight’s Roost shared the wizardly love for bright colours. It was the fashion in Corona City for men and women to clad themselves in dark expensive suits and bejewelled imported dresses for parties.

Already he pictured in stark contrast to them the villagers, all handsomely clad in embroidered shirts and black stockings and traditional buckles on their hard leather shoes that tap with each stomp of the foot.

Murphy considered the songs they played on the wireless. Those tunes did not match his vision at all. “At your balls, what music is there?”

“Do you mean what kind?”

“Mhm.”

“We have a piano at the inn,” began Hans, “and people will bring their own instruments to the hall to make merry. My friend Margarethe and I often play together: she’s a pianist and I’m a violinist.” Hans raised his brows ever so slightly – an idea had come into his head to which he was very partial. “I’ve no violin with me in Corona City, but I’ve my voice. I could sing you a classic tune if you’d like.”

Murphy blinked. No one had ever offered to sing to him anything without company present. Most of his musical experiences were summed up in wild nights tearing through town in his brother’s car with the lads, each of them tone-deaf and screaming rather than singing. “I’d like that very much, Hans.”

Hans smiled at him. Correcting his posture and relaxing his shoulders, he quickly went through his mental repertoire and chose a tune he hoped would bring a smile to his friend. However pleasant he was, Hans noticed Murphy did not smile much (though of course it was no indicator of mood as he was at his most peaceful when his face was beige-neutral) which he thought was a shame. He quite liked his smile. With that in mind, he recalled a favourite tune among the girls of Knight’s Roost and sang in a clear, sonorous voice:

“All of the boys from miles around come to the fair at Sedgefield town,
You don’t need money, you don’t need brass,
They all come down to find themselves a lass,

The girls of Sedgefield Fair, me boys, the girls of Sedgefield Fair…”

By the end of his performance, he spotted a ghost of a smile lurking on Murphy’s face. More determined than ever, Hans decided his mission for that day was to sing as many fine dancing songs he could remember until he could draw out a proper grin the likes of which the men of his village sported when pretty maidens accepted their fairings.

This plan of his would not leave his head as they walked home – Murphy insisting it was time for luncheon – and following their hearty meal of buttered bread and cheese they climbed up to the roof to call on the crows lest they fell neglected. Scarcely had Murphy opened his sketchbook when Hans commenced on his ‘devilish’ scheme, singing Come Lasses and Lads, Dashing Away With the Smoothing Iron, and Come and Be Welcome.

The external stoicism of the artist was impressive. Had Hans the abilities of mighty wizards quintuple his age he might have peeked into Murphy’s thoughts; then he would have known that while his expression was stonier than statuesque visages, inside the artist felt something warm bloom within chest. That something rose like a sunflower towards the songs that contained summer in their verses. Warmth, joy, and love of life were caught in the words comprising them. Murphy thought he could practically hear the cry of a happy violin at a midsummer festival beneath a tree.

“Ever heard city songs?” asked Murphy when Hans returned with a water bottle in hand.

“We have the wireless too.” Hans took three large gulps and exhaled. “All the composers like to live in cities. I bet it’s because everything everywhere happens all at once in cities. Must be terribly exciting to live where people always have so many things to do in so many different places, where everyone comes to see what’s what.”

“Daunting really.” Murphy massaged the back of one of the elder crows, yet his attention was completely on Hans. “Sometimes you just want to pause the week, gather your thoughts.”

“And that is why you are in the woods.”

“Mhm. But I’m city-born through and through. My songs smack of cobbled stones and factory smoke.”

“Oh, I must hear them!” Hans leaned towards him. “You can’t just say that and not expect me to ask you to sing.”

“Not a singer.”

“What does it matter? I won’t judge and I’ve been singing so much today that it is only fair I hear you sing even just the once.” And using the tone with which he regularly persuaded his father to do this and that, he added, “Please?”

Murphy, albeit feigning reluctance, had hoped for this response. He spoke truly when claiming he was no singer, and although that hinted at an inability it was incorrect for it simply meant he was not in the habit of it.

People had requested him to sing in the past at gatherings, after discotheques, or when alleyway children congregated at the rooftops of old apartment blocks with crips and sodas and cigarettes. Murphy had no trouble rejecting them on every occasion. A glare usually did the job decently.

But it was one thing to deny his peers and wholly another to refuse his first and only welcomed guest.

“Don’t expect sheep and rolling hills,” warned Murphy. “These’re about fires and factory labour.”

“I would not dream of sheep anywhere in the vicinity of a city.”

Murphy shook his head with amusement and, taking a slow breath, sang the song of working men upon whose back industry was built.

It was a far cry from the merry farmers whose own bone-shattering toil took them to the fields and plough, but it was no less fascinating to Hans who clasped his hands and lost himself in the revolution that would one day reach his quiet little home to drag it into the future along with the rest of the world.

Furthermore, he was thrilled by the auburn tones of his friend’s voice that could not have been anymore different to his own silver chords. If one had asked Hans what he expected singing city folk to sound like he would have promptly answered that their tunes must be as metallic and cold as their cars, their railroads, their brilliant industry. He would never have expected the warm crackling of the fireplace. It must be the woods that softened it, he thought.

“Thank you,” said Hans upon the finale. “It was beautifully performed. I will have to write the words down later tonight.”

“Why?” Murphy took a sip of water. “It’s nowhere pretty like country songs.”

“It is no match to Scarborough Fair, I agree, but it can stand its own in any respectable repertoire. Perhaps at home my friends and I shall tweak it a bit for our dances,” he said smilingly.

“You’ll have to write to me,” said Murphy with a reciprocating smirk. “Tell me how they like it.”

“I shall send you a letter immediately after my first performance of it at the inn,” promised Hans.

The lyrics were written down a few hours later. Murphy fried sliced potatoes and onions in olive oil for dinner and having relaxed his manners over the last five days Hans eagerly scarfed down the food with as much disgrace as he was ever willing to allow.

Though their sunlit activities brought both of them immense pleasure, it must be said that their true happiness occurred once the moon had risen high in the sky and they settled amongst blankets with mugs of tea to warm them. Scholars and philosophers often assume that human nature is the most complicated phenomenon to occur in the millions of years that life thrived on earth.

Perhaps they have the right of it. After all, were it not troubled souls and lofty ideals that gave birth to humanity’s greatest children, inventions, and empires? Well, maybe so. But this writress believes that if they these philosophers could hear the laughter float through the midnight woods then they will know that the world need not be so complicated. Humans were given arms with which to embrace each other, and legs to take them to friends with whom they will drink tea, and sensible minds to fully enjoy the first two gifts.

And that whole entire week, Hans and Murphy did just that.

Chapter Text

“Power cloaked in progress
 Smoke in Eden’s eyes
A million choking chimneys burn and
Blacken out the sky.”

Miracle of Sound.

On the morning of their last day together, the boys were in equal share happy at the time spent and miserable at the separation. Young Hans Westergaard promised to come calling as often as he could once he was again capable of flight, and while Murphy Stabbington kept his silence he smiled more than he usually did in regular society – something his brother and friends would have been eager to point out had they been present in the forest – and towards the end expressed his gladness to play host to the wizard whenever wanted.

They reached the main road outside of the forest’s edge with a great deal of chatter (on Hans’ part) and laughed endlessly as they waited with their thumbs outstretched to passing cars.

The wizard was still suspicious of this particular method of transport. Over the week, Murphy had told him of his poorer experiences of hitching rides that raised his hackles and brought to mind every crime story he had heard on the radio at home that earned a disapproving tut from the older inhabitants of the village.

As it turned out the moustachioed man who had driven them last week was ‘exceptionally kind’, and Murphy to wizardly bafflement chuckled as he retold the tale of a driver whose advances he had to fight off with an easel before eventually he was forced to jump out of the car entirely.

To Murphy it was a good, fine story to tell; to Hans it was the corroboration of his father’s disdain towards urbanites. Of course, it must be noted these disparities in perspective were less to do with their personalities and more with their backgrounds: had Hans instead revealed to Murphy the fact that every family in their village had in their history at least two relatives who broke their necks in a horse-riding accident then their reactions would be reversed.

Much to their good fortune, the driver that answered to their request was a very pleasant, absolutely normal young woman on her way to visit her sister studying in the city. Her car was a sunny yellow, the seats inside beaded with homemade covers, and in the back there were plenty of magazines that Mrs. Westergaard was known to keep at her house – a sure sign to her son that this was a trustworthy woman. As my readers will know, anybody who is a fan of Better Homes and Gardens and Ladies’ Home Journal is an individual worthy of respect, at least that was the opinion in Knight’s Roost.

Murphy hugged him tightly, almost to the point of suffocation, and helped him into the car. The young artist in his black jacket stood on the side of that dusty road until the vehicle had disappeared into the horizon. He stared at the road for much longer. He stared and sunk into his thoughts until the crows began to cry out for his return. Knowing the tantrums the birds were able to throw, Murphy did not tarry to return. Though it must be said that he had stolen a final look at the road before he entered forest.

Many miles off Hans and the young woman were revelling in each other’s company. She was a very pretty young woman – and beauty was always appreciated by this wizard – and Hans, upon noticing that a few magazines were musical, wondered whether she played an instrument.

You can only imagine his delight when she told him she was a violinist – just like him! They fell into a discourse on the superiority of their chosen instrument and by the time they drove into the city had turned on the radio to such volumes that other drivers on the road regarded them strangely. A few drivers thought them borderline insane when inside the car the pair started to sing – completely out of season – Carol of the Bells.

Overall, it was a lovely trip that Hans had had. He had a whale of a time with Murphy, and now inside this sunny car driven by a sunnier woman into the sunniest city along the coast he felt himself positively renewed. He was sure that his fresh attempts at flying will be fruitful, and even if they are not (hopefully they are but one could never be sure) he was determined to have a cheery outlook on the matter. Murphy had theorised that he was suffering from a version of artist’s block.

Nobody suffered from artist’s block forever so Hans was bound to recover sooner or later. His brother Henrik, for all his complaining and sighing, always found his way back to the easel. Hans had no doubt that he would find his way back to the skies. All shall be well the moment he was among the clouds again, but until then he will make merry on earth.

The woman dropped him off at the statue of Herz der Sonne. Hans raised his attention towards the stony visage of the king that centuries ago had established this city. Then he dropped his gaze onto the steps where more recently he had sat with his cat in the dreariest mood. Before he had made his friends and had his first clients. What a marked change time had wrought, he thought as he gave a quick bow to His Majesty. He was glad to see the king. It meant he was close to his home.

Walking up the cobbled hill Hans wondered on the whereabouts of Sitron and Rapunzel, the welfare of Madam Arianna, and whether Flynn was able to fix his flying bicycle yet.

That construction was a marvel! Hans had enjoyed riding on it very much and until the air was ready to carry him on a broom he thought perhaps he could once more try his luck on that machine. They had flown a little on it. Granted, it had crashed and nearly sent them to their Maker, but prior to that it had flown! Hans should be glad for any means to take him to the skies. God Almighty, he may be persuaded in this state to board the dirigible.

The street was as quiet as it was at this hour. Contrarily, the bakery was busier than Hans had ever seen it in his time as an assistant. Immediately he dashed into the courtyard, up the stairs into his flat above the storage, frightened Sitron awake from his nap, and raced into the house.

There Mr. Frederic and his daughter were swamped with customers. When Hans appeared at the doorway, the sturdy baker grabbed him by the collar his shirt and placed him at the till to assist Rapunzel in her packing tribulations. “What’s going on?” he exclaimed, baffled.

“Hi, it’s good to see you back!” Rapunzel grinned, yet she did not pause her chaotic movements. “The dirigible is going to fly today. Corona City’s making an event of it, I guess! Everybody’s buying cakes and pastries to eat when they watch the dirigible go into the air.” She handed the crinkly paper bag to a customer and plunged towards the puff pastries. “Man the till, will you? We need to get through this rush!”

Hans immediately set to work. He was rather good with numbers – a fact discovered early in his stay with the family – and once he was taught how to operate the till he was an able hand at it. They worked in perfect tandem, he and Rapunzel, with her handling the packaging of the many puff pastries, cakes, meringues, pavlovas, and the multitudes of bread her father was continuously bringing to the shopfront and he at the till calculating change and writing receipts. It was hard work.

By the afternoon the deluge of customers had thinned enough for Mr. Frederic to release them, for which the children were very grateful. Rapunzel had been so caught up in her tasks that she had pinned her hair into a tight bun. Hans had nearly taken off his waistcoat.

Sitting in the courtyard and enjoying a large pitcher of water, they relaxed in the shade thrown by the walls. Hans told her all about his time in the forest. He especially enjoyed describing Murphy’s artistic prowess to Rapunzel, knowing she herself was a creative soul and having seen how she had painted the walls of her bedroom.

Should her parents give them their consent, Hans would like to take her along with him the next time he went calling on Murphy. Hans had an admiration for painters of all kinds. Having made his choice to focus on music, he rarely bothered picking up a brush though found pleasure in watching true artists at their work.

Besides, he thought (and quite righteously if you ask the author) that Murphy Stabbington could do with more visitors. Of course, Hans had no intentions of always bringing Rapunzel with him, but it would do on occasion! It would be proper fun!

Rapunzel meanwhile was so excited by the notion of a woodland artist that she was tempted to catch the first bus out of the city when her mother popped her head out of the door.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you two!” said Mistress Arianna with a smile.

“We’re resting right now,” sighed her daughter. “What a day! At least we can see the dirigible in flight – it’ll be fantastic!”

“Yes, it is a real technological wonder!” Stepping onto the courtyard, she stretched her lower back – the large belly weighing down her centre of gravity – and then dropped fully flat on the soles of her feet. Hands on her hips, she added, “Hans, dear, I know you just came back and that it was a real tough morning here at the bakery but we’ve received several phone calls from that elderly madam. I did tell her that you just returned from a holiday and had the busiest of afternoons but she was terribly insistent. If it is not too much of a bother, do you think you could drop by her house later today?”

Hans perked up upon hearing the word. “Oh, is everything alright?” Aware of Madam’s poorly knees and familiar with the problems plaguing his own grandfather, he had a few expectations of the issues that may affect the joints. “I hope nothing has worsened.”

“She expressed no discomfort,” remarked Mistress Arianna. “She just wishes to see you very much and asked that you call on her today.”

Scrambling to his feet, Hans beat off the dust and bits of grass from his clothes. He pulled Rapunzel up as well and helped tidy her clothes before announcing his resolve to call on the Madam as soon as possible. Mistress Arianna applauded his enthusiasm. She bid him to wait a moment before leaving the bakery, packing a small basket with an array of goods to bring to the grand lady.

Sitron had at that point emerged from the flat. He informed Hans that his mother had sent him a parcel of potions, several demanding to be drunk as soon as possible; Mistress Arianna therefore included them in the basket as well for Hans to take with him lest he should wish to drink them with the Madam. Finally Rapunzel urged him to afterwards make haste to the beach where she and Cassandra had plans to watch the dirigible set sail.

“What of our Flynn Rider?” asked Hans. “With how he raved about flight and especially the dirigible, I assumed he would be like a shot to this show.”

Here Rapunzel adopted a triumphant expression and tilted her head in a sly manner. “Flynn wiggled his way onto the flying party. He’ll actually be on the dirigible!”

“On the dirigible!”

“Yes, on!” She grinned. “Isn’t that wonderful. He promised to wave down at us, and I convinced him to put on a bright red shirt so that we could easily spot him on the ground. You must come to the beach straight afterwards calling on Madam. We’ll make a day out of it and this evening Flynn will come here for tea to tell us all about his time in the skies.”

“I’d be extremely interested to hear his opinion on the skies! Not to sound…well, not to sound pretentious but having flown on a broom practically sense birth must have desensitised me somehow.” Though Hans would not admit that in his current state the day, the hour, the minute he can reach the high heavens again would sear permanently in his memory. “I’ll transcribe his experience onto paper for my parents to read – they’ve only heard about the dirigible on the wireless.”

So they spoke for a quarter of an hour before they were at last able to earnestly part ways rather than bid each other farewell and continue talking for a few minutes more. Hans was quite eager to leave on his errand. He had enjoyed himself immensely the last time he had called on Madam and he wished to escape the awkward conversation that threatened to ensue when Rapunzel wondered aloud why he intended to go on foot to the house.

Hans offered the excuse of preferring to walk the journey with the legs that God had given him, which may have truly worked had he not repeatedly on multiple occasions expressed his strong preference to flight. Rapunzel, however, being a nice and understanding girl noticed his sudden agitation and released him from further conversation.

The handsome house with the blue roof was a fair bit out of the way from the bakery. Hans had walked on foot for a full hour until he had given up that endeavour and bought himself a day pass on the bus. What a horrendous moment that was – a witch’s son who had flown before he had walked or talked buying a day pass on public transportation – but desperate times wanted desperate measures.

It was blessedly a quick bus ride from that particular station. It was almost tolerable. Most people that day boarded the buses going the opposite direction towards the beach, towards the dirigible, letting Hans have his pick of the window seats of his own choosing and air unheated by tightly packed rows of sweltering bodies.

He held the basket tightly in his hand as he footed the last leg of the of the journey towards the blue-roofed house. His mood, somewhat soured by the earlier humiliation, lifted upon seeing the grand edifice with its tendrils of ivy and orangery and a plethora of flowers at the height of their blooms. Hans could not help the smile that flourished on his face. He pushed open the iron gate, walked up the cobbled trail, and just as he had done a few weeks earlier knocked on the door to be greeted by Bertha.

Honesty demanded the report that Bertha this time was far more exuberant. She hurried Hans into the drawing room, herself ran to the kitchen, and under her breath the wizard was certain he heard her excited murmurs regarding the dirigible that he momentarily saw on the screen. The whole city’s obsessed; not just Flynn, he thought.

The lady of the house was much calmer than her servant. She sat on a comfortable chair made of walnut and had around her shoulders a bed jacket. Her greetings were warm, as was her general mien and the glint in her eyes that sparkled at his approach. As Hans bowed to her and proffered her the basket of baked goods, she apologised for denying him a curtsy as her knees were in a terrible state that day.

“Fickle is what they are,” she sighed. “One should think that on so hot a day they would be at their best, and yet here they are limiting me in my salutations.”

“It is no trouble, Madam,” assured her Hans. “I should never begrudge a lady in her own home. Besides, one cannot control on which days their joints shall hurt. I am only sorry that these potions my mother sent me are not geared towards rheumatism. If you’d like I am willing to try brewing a potion against your ailments myself, but I warn you I am nowhere as skilled as my mother.”

“Oh, I would be delighted to a try a potioneer’s recipe for the pain in my poor knees. I shall not even mind ordering directly from your mother if you fear your potions will not do as they should (though I very much doubt that, talented young man as you are). My knees, however, are not the reason why I phoned the bakery seeking you,” she said.

“I did wonder what your motives may be,” chuckled Hans.

She smiled at him and called for Bertha. The faithful old servant came tottering from the kitchen carrying a neat white box. She set it in front of Hans and moved to sit in front of the television.

Hans glanced at Madam, who urged him to open the box. Never untoward, Hans did as he was told and gasped to find beneath the unassuming box a chocolate cake of generous proportions decorated with his very own special emblem as a flying delivery boy.

Next to him, Madam began her request, “I’d like that delivered to a person named Hans because he did a big favour for me the other day. It is my way of showing my gratitude.” She leaned closer. “I should also be happy if at the same time you would find out his birthday for me. Then I will be able to bake him another cake for so special an occasion—Oh, Hans!”

Hans had swivelled aside his head and covered his eyes with the length of his forearm. His shoulders trembled slightly. At the utterance of concern, he swiftly moved to face the Madam with the brightest of smiles on his face and thanked her profusely for her present. Then he added, “I’m absolutely positive that this Hans will want to know Madam’s birthday too! It will be great fun and a pleasure for him, I am sure, to think of a present to give to her.”

The mood in the drawing room was beyond jovial! Hans and Madam were engrossed in their conversation while Bertha haphazardly prepared tea to serve them while they waited for the dirigible to set flight. Not once did her eyes and ears stray from the television set, and as she let her cup of tea cool to room temperature Madam explained to Hans how fond her servant was of dirigibles. Almost obsessed with them, really, as they were the best chance they got for people to reach the air.

“What of hot air balloons? Aren’t dirigibles constructed on the same principle?”

“Bertha cherishes them as well,” said Madam in-between her sips. “I don’t much care for them myself. They are too flimsy for my taste, and I worry what should happen if the rope snaps or the conductor loses control. Not to mention the jolts of pain I should suffer on high altitude. No, my knees and I are happier on solid ground whereas Bertha…” she cast an entertained look on the servant that nearly doubled over herself while slanting closer and closer towards the screen, “…Bertha always loved the great outdoors and that includes the skies.”

“My father protests whenever my mother drags him onto her broom,” said Hans merrily. “He used to sail a lot as a young man, and once when they were courting he told her that they should sail to the end of the world together.” He smiled. “Mother agreed to join him on his trip, but she said she will reach their destination before him since she will be flying. I think since that incident my father stuck to sailing purely out of principle.”

“Sailing is a fine activity too,” said Madam. “My late husband was very fond of sailing about the harbour of Corona City. We spent many summers on the boat. There is nothing better for the spirit than to be nourished by the sea breeze.”

“So says my father!”

“What a wise man he must be! A lover of the sea and a husband to a witch – I should be very glad to make his acquaintance should he come visiting you in Corona City.”

“He has promised to come in autumn for my birthday,” said Hans. “He and Mother both will come.”

He picked up one of the three potions his mother had sent him and poured it into the subsequent cups of tea he drank. It was a sweet brew, made of dried fruits and eastern spices, and though its substance had little of magic in it on account of its mundane ingredients Mrs. Westergaard had magicked it to lift the spirits. With each drop of the infused tea, Hans felt his mood improve doubly than it would have without it. Within a quarter of the hour, he and Madam were positively giddy from their conversation. Naturally, the shock that Bertha’s cry of alarm jolted them twice as much as it would have had they been in repose.

On the television screen, a throng of men – sailors, police officers, and firefighters –clung onto the rope that bound the dirigible to the ground. The reporter shouted into his microphone, declaring a state of alarm as a sudden gust of wind had broken the balance of the dirigible and pushed its nose downward. The screen flashed between his agitated tidings and the masses of men trying their best to pull the dirigible back to its prone position.

“It’s lost its balance,” screamed the reporter. “It’s lost its balance, and the dirigible is now fully upside down! They’re doing their best to anchor the last rope holding it. I wonder if they can hold the dirigible considering it looks ready to float away with the gale. Ahh!! It’s not looking good for the crew!”

Any and all conversation ceased as Bertha, Madam, and Hans intently watched the screen. On it, the men were piling onto each other like a pack of ants in their efforts to keep hold of the last rope.

Many fell, many climbed over the fallen bodies, but the tremendous lift of the helium gas inside of the dirigible pulled it higher and higher until it threw off every sailor, police officer, and firefighter off itself. The grown and the strong fell flat on the ground, leaving the rope to be pulled down by an awfully familiar boy with hair tied in a high ponytail, bleached jeans, a bandana around his neck, and a popped collar.

Hans dropped the porcelain cup in his hand at the fright he felt. Unbroken though it was, there were cracks running through the floral embellishments on its face.

“Flynn!” he shouted.

“Oh dear, do you know that boy?” asked Madam.

“He’s a friend of mine!” Hans clutched at the lapels of his waistcoat like an old woman her pearls as he watched Flynn flap about the air in a manner not too different from a fish. However grating a presence Flynn Rider could be – and God knew just how grating he could be – Hans had grown to cherish that annoying hooligan of a presumptuous flirt as his friend. It distressed him to see Flynn float higher and higher, away from the reach of the men, knowing full well that injuries that came with falling. “Madam, Bertha, thank you so much for the tea but I must go! I must leave right now!”

Madam bade him to be careful whereas Bertha grabbed the two remaining potions and shoved them into the boy’s grasp before he fled the house. “Who knows whether you might need your witchy brews!” she said. “Take care of yourself too!”

“I will try!” And with that, Hans ran out of the house quicker than he had ever run in his thirteen years. Weaving between the denizens of the city, Hans ignored the strain in his legs and the ache in his lungs, all the while praying that Flynn was firm of grasp.

Chapter Text

“We’ll walk in the sunshine, we’ll laugh and we’ll sing
And dance to the tune that our happiness brings
Come go with me to this place I speak of
Together we’ll find it, this place is called love.”

Dolly Parton.

A tragedy, no matter how distressing, was always a point of interest. The denizens of Corona City rushed out of their rooms, their houses, their streets to climb up onto their roofs or infest the tops of bridges in hopes of catching a glimpse of the young boy that currently flew several hundred metres above the air with nothing to secure his life but his own grasp on a flimsy piece of rope.

When it was reported that the police car that had earlier been attached to the rope (in an effort to pull the dirigible down with its force) had dropped into the pool of a grand house, leaving nothing between the boy and the ground, residents of every neighbourhood lost hold of their teacups and clutched their pearls and tugged on their hair and covered their eyes with fingers widely spread.

The enthusiasm of regular watchers could only be matched by the fever that struck the workers of every news station. Several news vans and an army of reporters were sent to cover the story from every possible angle; the word had even spread to nearby cities whose own journalists were hurrying to the scene.

All the while, hanging from the rope, poor Flynn Rider concentrated the strength he possessed into his arms to pull himself upwards. It may not do much, he thought, considering he could fall from any point of the rope, but it made him feel better to at least cling onto the it with his thighs as well as his hands rather than letting them flop in the air.

Truthfully, he had not expected to be the last man clinging onto the rope. If he had been cleverer, he would have let go of the damn thing while still a reasonable distance from the ground. But Flynn was not a clever boy. He was shrewd, yes, and resourceful, but cleverness was a trait better belonging to Hans than him. Hans would not even have grabbed the rope in the first place, that was how clever he was.

Flynn thought of Hans. He had not seen the young wizard since they parted ways that day by the beach. When he had come calling on the bakery later, Rapunzel told him that Hans had gone to visit a friend that lived out of town.

He had wondered who that friend could have been, though when he later heard from Seamus that Murphy had taken a liking to the wizard Flynn could have laughed – and he did laugh! That sour hermit in his wooden cabin in the dead of nowhere was as solitary as an oyster. Considering how sophisticated and chatty Hans was in his charming old country ways, Flynn had no doubt that he would not tarry in the forest. He was so confident that Hans would return quickly that he called on the bakery every day.

A full week had passed.

Brilliant, thought Flynn bitterly. I am going to pancake myself against the concrete while Master Prim and Proper is petting some crows in the forest.

The dirigible suddenly lowered its height. The rope descended to the level of the clocktower, and Flynn from his vantage point saw the entire city looking back at him. I’m going to splat like a raw tomato in front of everybody in Corona City. Then he caught sight of no less than six reporters and their cameramen. And maybe in front of the entire coast too.

“God, now would have been a good time to have stolen a magic broom,” he muttered to himself. “See, this is what happens when I respect the property of others: I end up dancing with Lady Death herself.”

Flynn tightened his grasp on the rope. The knuckles of his hands had gone white, but he did not care a whit. They were fast approaching the clocktower, and Flynn could not just flap idly by when his death was coming to greet him.

So, upwards at the crew he shouted, “We’re going to hit this building! Can’t you get this airship higher? The clocktower’s straight in our way!”

A bearded man in uniform shouted, “We don’t have enough gas to go higher! Before we crash into the clocktower, try to jump into the tower!”

“Fine!” shrieked Flynn. “I’ll try!”

“Don’t you worry!” suddenly shouted the old man, the clocktower’s caretaker, from his balcony. “I’ll catch you! I’ll catch you!”

“Thank you!” screamed Flynn. To himself, he murmured, “I’m going to die. I’m going to die and I didn’t even have a proper breakfast this morning!”

***

Down below, Hans wove past the thickening crowd of people. One could tell his determination by the fact that he had knocked and pushed against people without caring to apologise for the grievances committed. As he saw it, a random boy inconveniencing an individual guaranteed to live to have their evening tea was a lesser offence than risking the life of his friend to adhere to propriety. He had even stumbled over a toddler, ignored its cries, and continued on his torrent up the street where all the reporters claimed the dirigible was heading. Soon enough, Hans saw the dirigible for himself as it lowered and lowered between the tall buildings of the central square.

Seized with fear, Hans ran up to a car whose driver had let down the windows and peered into it. “Excuse me, sir,” he said nervously, “but has there been any word of the boy? The one literally hanging by the rope off the dirigible?”

The driver for his part was not much offended by the intrusion. Really, it was an incredible sort of day; what was a kid peering into his window? “I don’t know anything about the boy; the latest word was that police car attached the rope had plunged into a fountain.”

Hans nodded and shot off onto his path. He ran and ran and ran. His dedication to reaching Flynn was praiseworthy, especially when a series of fire brigades in their bright red trucks sounded the alarms to clear the streets and Hans, whether out of worry or perseverance, was deaf to them.

The firefighters began to yell at him, insisting that he clear the street, but again the wizard was of single-minded determination to get to Flynn and promptly ignored the warning. Had it not been for the timely intervention of a street sweeper, who caught the wizard by the arm and pulled him to the pavement, then it was likely that the next letter received by Fifteen Lionheart Lane would have been very sad indeed.

Gasping for air, Hans beat at his chest as if the pounding would compel his lungs to stop burning. He lowered into a hunch, drops of sweat falling onto the ground, and then whiplashed right back into a proper posture ready to sprint; and sprint he would have if his eyes had not gone blurry for a singular moment of alarm that had the boy guessing his own longevity.

“Are you alright, lad?” asked the street sweeper.

“I’m fine, sir, thank you,” said Hans with the airs of a boy who was not fine. He opened another potion – that which restored a tired body – and quaffed the contents in three gulps. As he did so he saw that the street sweeper held in his hand a broom.

It was not a broom any witch or wizard would dare to use for flight. The magical community valued their traditions, and their traditions dictated that the brooms on which they flew were the classic besoms. Mrs. Westergaard made the handles of hers out of sturdy ash with twigs of birch and fibre rubbed with flying ointment for good measure. Her brooms and those of her sons were all constructed according to this method for it was tried and tested.

A witch was as good as the quality of her broom, the saying went, and any self-respecting witch would blush to fly on something made in a factory by machines or workers without a touch of magic in their blood. The shape of those brooms were wrong, the bristles irregular, the character of the handle impertinent, and overall it was a humiliation.

Since Hans had already humiliated himself that very day by taking the bus, he decided there was little else he could lose and if he must lose respect then he might as well do it one day and be done with it.

“Sir,” he said, his fingers wrapping around the handle, “may I borrow this broom of yours for just a moment?”

“What?” said the street sweeper.

“I promise I’ll return it!” he said, already pulling the broom from the old man. “I really need it, but I’ll bring it back in—let’s say relatively fine condition. Thank you!”

“Alright then!” said the baffled man, whose bafflement only increased when Hans ran to the centre of the street and threw one leg over the handle.

You may rest assured that the street sweeper was not the sole member of the public left astonished by this bizarre display. The mindful reader will recall that Corona City had not had a resident sorcerer in many years. Modern, urbanised, cosmopolitan centres functioned perfectly well without magic for the most part.

Since the vast majority of the population was mundane, without any predispositions for the otherworldly, many city dwellers have deluded themselves into thinking that their modern, urbanised, cosmopolitan world was devoid of all things mythical and mysterious. In cities where engineers built dirigibles and spoke of conquering the skies, the people have forgotten that for centuries the skies were already the domain of witches and their children.

Thus to these folks in their jeans and automobiles, it was a most marvellous sight to see a young wizard hunched over a broom with a look of steadfast valour frozen on his face. It was an unfamiliar sight to them, strange and peculiar, though the write feels compelled to say that it was a common enough phenomenon in Knight’s Roost that there it was met with gentle fondness. The expression was one that each of Mrs. Westergaard’s magical children wore when they were just learning to fly, and what a delight it would have been to them to see it once more on Hans.

The bristles of the floor broom burst from their roots. Then the air itself seemed to have changed its flow to attend on the young boy. It pushed up his shirt, his hair, and pushed away the dust and bits of paper from him as it spun quickly into a whirl that carefully lifted the wizard off the ground.

On both sides of the street, people were torn between watching the dirigible and watching this strange boy in his strange clothes literally ascend off the cobbled street whilst bearing himself in a most serious manner. They took pictures and gawked, they marvelled and gasped, and none of them heard the solemn manner in which Hans ordered the broom to fly.

His manner was less solemn when he thrice kicked against the buildings to find his balance, but to the awe of the onlookers and the secret delight of Hans he really did fly into the air.

The broom was…unruly. It had not been constructed with the purpose of flight and was as shocked as its humble owner that it had managed to break into the heavens. Like a newborn deer it stumbled and fell and tripped, causing trouble to Hans who screamed as he slammed against the roof and sharply plummeted downwards only to then hurl across a restaurant and a shopping arcade before shooting upwards like a bullet.

Hans squeezed his hands around the handle. “Fly properly!” he commanded. “Or I will break you into pieces and throw you into the fire!”

The broom did not take kindly to the threat and tried to throw the wizard off itself.

Hans, proud and stubborn, frowned and slapped the cheap material of the handle. Then he grabbed the third and last of his mother’s potions from his pocket and smashed it against the handle.

It was a fine potion. Very well-made with worthy ingredients. Hans had no need to read the label as he had recognised it by the specific smell, or rather lack of it. This was a very special potion that his mother brewed for him, a potion that obliged its drinker to behave themselves.

Hans had mentioned to his father on their last phone call that the crows guarding the artist were not terribly keen on him. Their first encounter involved the throwing of nasty accusations, and Hans expressed a fear that they might try to pluck out his eyes. Mr. Westergaard subsequently infected his wife with his own fears that their son will become blind because of those terrible birds, and though Mrs. Westergaard – a lover of avian creatures herself – tried to pay him no heed the seed of danger of was sown in her mind. On the note that she sent Sitron with the package was an order to add a few droplets of the potion to the rill or brook from which the crows drank their fill.

Sitron had read and understood his orders. He had not, however, noticed which of the bottles Hans had taken and only now realised it while across the city his friend broke the glass against the broom.

The potion did its work quickly, efficiently. The bristles and the grains of wood soaked up the brew better than it would have water. The effects were instantaneous.

Yet it must be noted that though the broom was now docile, it by no means flew straight and proper as a besom. The broom was built for sweeping urban floors, and it was frightened both by the great height separating it from the ground and the stern-voiced boy clutching onto it. The flight therefore was full of bumps and jolts and threats. Hans would have given a severe beating had he not focused sight on the dirigible that colliding with the clocktower. The crewmembers inside of the dirigible were in quite a bit of panic; some thirty metres under them was Flynn clawing against the painted bricks. A few paces to the right was the caretaker of the clocktower, frantically proffering him a mop.

For a moment it seemed that the caretaker would manage to rescue Flynn. Then the dirigible dislodged bits of stone and metal from the top of the clocktower, which rained down on the boy and pushed him away from the face of the tower. Like a pendulum it swung in a sweeping motion towards the ground and beyond.

Hans commanded the broom to quicken its pace. The broom fell low to the ground and – feeling much better about itself – sped past the police cars and fire brigades. Closer to the ground it felt bolder, braver, and had less issues threading past the throngs of watchers fleeing from the debris thrown by the dirigible crashing into a set of residential buildings. Once they were approaching the end of the road, Hans tilted the handle upwards and they set off flying towards Flynn.

The news reporters, who up until this point were keeping track of Flynn and betting the chances of his dying, now fixed their cameras on the young wizard hurtling through the air towards him.

Around the city those who recognised perked up and gleefully exclaimed that they were acquaintances with the hero of the day, that they had their parcels delivered by him, yet no household was as thrilled as that of the bakers and the old woman with her servant. They practically jumped out of their seats despite pregnancies and creaky knees to cheer on the boy from their drawing rooms.

“Oh, so somebody has decided to make good of their gifts and come rescue me at last!” shouted Flynn in a shrill voice. “Took you long enough!”

Without missing a beat, Hans snapped, “Be grateful that I heard of your troubles in the first place! Or else there would be nobody catching you!”

“I’m grateful that you watch the television like the rest of us! Thought maybe that that piece of technology was too modern for your tastes!” Flynn pulled himself upwards for what had to be the hundredth time. “Where’s your usual broom? Why’re you flying like that?”

And indeed Hans was bouncing about Flynn in a very erratic manner. He scowled. “Your first question answers the second,” he said. “Don’t be mean to this broom. It’s trying its best.”

“I am going to fall to my death here if you don’t mind!”

“Stick your hand out properly then!”

“I am sticking it out! You’re the one not grabbing it!”

“Stick it out better!”

“Oh my god, I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” protested Hans. “I’m here, am I not? That means you’re NOT going to die!”

“Then take my hand already!”

“Shut up!”

Hans, who was properly battling it out with the unexperienced broom, would have continued his uncharacteristically rude rebukes at Flynn if he had not seen how the boy’s hands were losing grip of the rope. It was not for lack of trying on both their parts. The broom was shaky, Hans risked falling himself, Flynn was understandably increasingly agitated, and the entire plaza shouted words of encouragement that in the moment were not very encouraging to those in the middle of the action.

Then Flynn’s hand lost grip of the rope and, with a piercing scream, he fell.

Everybody at the plaza and in their homes were seized by a terrible anxiety. Everybody except Hans, whose burst of magic took over the will of the broom and directed it towards his falling friend. It was a matter of speed now, and while Flynn had shut his eyes and prepared for his bones to crush Hans extended an arm to hook Flynn by his own and pull him close.

“He caught him!” proclaimed the news reporter to his camera. “He caught him in mid-air!! They’ve just descended safely to the ground. What an emotional scene; and look! The crew of the dirigible is safe too!”

“We’re alive!” said Flynn, incredulous. “We’re alive. We’re not dead.”

“Yes, because we are alive,” said Hans, smiling. He looked proudly at the broom. “And you’ve done very well for your first flight! Your owner must be exceedingly proud to have you.”

The broom would have blushed if it were able.

“I knew I was right to follow my hunch,” Flynn was saying, “when I just kept calling on you until we became friends. Imagine if we weren’t! Then I would have been hospitalised for months on end.”

Hans raised a brow. “At that height, you would have been dead.”

“The morgue,” smacked Flynn between his lips, “happens to be in the hospital.”

Hans pursed his lips. “I guess so.”

Flynn gave a triumphant nod. He opened his mouth for another smart remark yet was cut short by the onslaught of reporters eager to be the first to interview these wondrous young men. Flynn relished the attention, describing in exaggerated detail the emotions he felt while clinging for dear life to the rope. Next to him, Hans smiled at the flashes and cameras. To Flynn he whispered, “Imagine if my parents should see me on the papers! How exciting would that be?”

Flinging an arm over his shoulder, Flynn gave him a friendly squeeze and said, “Let’s get a picture together so your parents know what I look like!” Then he told a reporter, “Will you take one of us together?”

A myriad of white flashes went.  

***

Mr. Westergaard sat on his large, plush armchair and read a book. His wife sat beside him flipping through Potions’ Monthly. It was a warm and bright day, perfect for reading in the natural light of the sun. The day was slow. Steady. Many days of their marriages were spent in this quiet idyll since their children more or less outgrew their screaming, shouting, demanding years. Their hands were clasped, and their hearts beat as one while they read their respective texts.

They had not heard of Hans in some time. They had had their phone call, a postcard had been sent from the outskirts saying he was staying with a friend, and then Henrietta returned saying that she had delivered the package and though Hans she did not meet Sitron claimed all was well. This would have satisfied them under normal circumstances, but their son Klaus repeatedly expressed a concern for in his dreams his brother appeared downtrodden, bound to earth. Any attempts to make contact were snipped. Hans would not be neither talked to nor talk.

The grandfather clock across the room ticked.

Mr. Westergaard turned a page. He smiled and beckoned his wife to draw nearer because on the page there were scribbles he had written as a young man seeking inspiration to write his own love poetry addressed to the then Miss Hammersmed.

A loud bang shocked them.

Stomping through the garden was their twelfth son, Maron, smeared with dirt from the top of his curly head to the bottom of his bare feet. Seventeen years of age, he was wild as a savage and giggly as a toddler; today he was especially giggly and keeping true to his childish spirit paid no heed to the aggrieved expression of his mother who had only yesterday mopped the floors.

“Mother, Father, I come bearing news from the city!” he exclaimed.

“News from the city?” Mr. Westergaard immediately set aside his book. “Has your brother sent a letter?”

“Has he sent you a mop?” said Mrs. Westergaard drily.

“No, but when I was passing through the train station in search of ghouls and goblins—”

“How have you gotten so muddy if you were at the train station?” inquired Mrs. Westergaard.

“—I grabbed from their boxes a newspaper from Corona City and look who we’ve got here smacked in the middle of the front page!”

Handing the crinkly papers to his father, Maron promptly scurried out of the house before his mother could strike him for the mess he made. Mrs. Westergaard would have followed him, and gladly, but her husband took her hand and showed her the newspaper. Just as Maron described, there on the front and centre of the first page was a black-and-white picture of their son next to another boy.

That other boy was exactly how Mr. Westergaard imagined boys of poor influence to be, and he lamented that the influence had already taken place because the broom held by his son was a regular floor broom rather than the traditional besom.

Mrs. Westergaard meanwhile read the headline, “Corona City’s Wizard Saves Local Boy!” She exchanged a curious look with her husband. “Our boy saved a boy? Our Hans?”

“Why’s he holding that broom?” complained Mr. Westergaard. “Where’s the one you gave him?”

“Where is it indeed! I swear if he broke it then I will be forcing Klaus to induce a sleep paralysis to give Hans a lecture!”

Mrs. Westergaard snatched the newspaper into her own hands and, beckoning her husband to sit at her side on the sofa, started to read aloud the fantastic articles covering this most recent spectacle that amazed them straight back onto their feet. Mrs. Westergaard ran out of the door searching for her eagle to interrogate it on the precise words that Sitron had used in case there was a sign they missed. Mr. Westergaard lunged towards the phone where he would proceed to ring and ring until Mr. Frederic picked up the other end and promised to have Hans call back as soon as he could.

Though the year was uneasy, and at times Hans was filled with doubt, the experience left him all the bolder and braver than he was prior to his first flight. In short, it did him good. A world of good. The tradition of sending witches and wizards out into the world at thirteen may be dying out, and there may be good reasons for it, but you will never hear this particular wizard complaining or protesting about his own year away from home. What with the new friends and independence that the young wizard had gained by his fourteenth birthday, the writer is confident in saying that all had and shall be well for Hans Westergaard Erikson. For ever and ever. Always.