Love, Magic and Misfortune by Karla Nikole

1

Then

Violet’s foot slipped against the tree trunk, but she quickly caught herself, scraping her knee and probably her stockings in the process. She winced at the unmistakable sting. That wouldn’t do. Gram would fuss about that later, no question. Although, Violet despised stockings—the scratchy, static-laden material always hung awkwardly low at her crotch—and she’d be glad for one less pair, quite frankly.

Her small fingers gripping the rough crevices of the bark, she steadied herself before lifting an arm to pull up higher. Then a little more, and a little more still. Violet had climbed bigger trees than this. The ones within the wood behind her grandmother’s house were much larger—like the beanstalk giants or great kings in the fairy tales from her bedtime stories. This scraggly little apple tree was nothing. A side character. A measly peasant.

Finally, she reached her target: a split where a branch stretched out over the stone gate behind Laurent House. She’d never climbed this particular tree before. Never had to. Usually when she rang the doorbell to the very grand, old home, Mr. or Mrs. Laurent welcomed her inside, smiling and polite. They were a little odd. Maybe even eccentric (as old families with old money often were), but always kind. That was just the way of the Laurent family. Everyone thought so.

But something had changed. The adults were being difficult and not telling her anything. When she rang the doorbell now, she was turned away. Sometimes there was no answer at all, even though she distinctly saw smoke rising from the tall chimney above the study.

It was time to take matters into her own hands.

Lifting her head, she scanned the small, cluttered yard, soaked in dreary gray colors despite the morning sunlight. The subtle edges of winter had already frayed the garden, leaving the rose bushes lining the paths thin and brittle. Hollowed. A few short months ago, they were thick and green, dancing with vivid color—singing with the hum of fuzzy bees and the whispered beat of butterfly wings.

Violet’s breath puffed in the frosty air. To her amazement, he was there. Her best friend in the world with his big gray eyes—too large for his face, if she was honest about it. Like giant full moons on a stormy night. He was sitting on the ground just beside the stone birdbath, whose covering of twisted ivy leaves had also dried and withered around the basin.

Leaning forward, Violet laid her palm flat against the outstretched branch, cautiously settling her weight. It was a bit wobblier than she would have liked, but no problem, peasant tree that it was. She scooted her body along, just an inch at a time, and leaned a little further forward before taking a deep breath. “Jasper.”

Her friend looked up with a snap. Moon eyes on hers, his dark eyebrows furrowed. “Vi? What the heck are you doing?”

“Why haven’t you come to school?” Violet demanded. “It’s been four weeks. Are you still itchy all over?”

The silly branch shook underneath her weight. She resettled herself, gripping it tighter and noticing the flakes of bark latching onto the wool of her powder-blue coat sleeves. She’d make sure to pluck those off before returning home—ripped stockings were bad enough.

Jasper paused, blinking at her for a moment. “Yeah… I’m sick.”

“You don’t look sick.”

“Well, I am. Not all sick people look sick.”

“What’s sick about you—” The branch wobbled and Violet gripped it harder. Stupid thing. “When will you be better?”

This time he looked down, staring at whatever strange object was cupped within his small hands. Knowing him, it could be anything—a mathematics puzzle or brain teaser, a dried-up beetle husk or rock that he would swear was remarkable in some way.

“I won’t,” he said. “Never.”

Surprised, Violet jerked against the branch. “What? How can you never get better? I don’t understand!”

It hadn’t been very long. It couldn’t have been. Well, in truth, Violet hadn’t kept track of the last time they’d met and played together. She never remembered the exact days. Time was just this fuzzy, invisible thing that only seemed to move because the adults around her had told her so. But she knew school had resumed on the fifteenth. That had been highlighted on Gram’s kitchen calendar: circled in bright red with the thick marker she kept in a jar on the counter.

It had been warm the last time she and Jasper were together—in the clearing of Pont du Coquelicot. Their favorite place. She remembered that much, because he had taken her by the hand and they’d walked together through the tall, swaying grass and late-afternoon sunlight. It had felt like a ride at the fair, the way her heart raced. Jasper had taken her among the trees and shown her the place where he’d found a caterpillar cocooning a nest around itself in preparation for winter. She remembered it because it had all been so exciting. But he’d also been acting a little strange. Afraid, even.

Something inside her felt all wrong now. She couldn’t breathe very well, like an elephant was sitting on her chest. “Jas, just—please come to Gram’s with me, okay? She’s making lemon tarts and—”

“I can’t, Violet,” he said. “I can’t… I’m—”

Nothing. She waited, just staring at her friend behind the cold stone wall, sitting in his dreary garden surrounded by dead things. Her dearest friend, so curious and full of life and energy. She couldn’t understand.

He lifted his head, meeting her eyes once more. “Listen. I know… Well, Freddie Martin always teases you about your hair when we’re at school. But he’s an idiot, alright? You—your hair is great. It looks happy.”

“Happy?” Violet blinked, reaching up and gripping the wild, curly dark mass in her fingers. Dad always told her that it floated about her head like a halo. Whatever that meant. “Happy hair?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He smiled, staring with his giant moon eyes. “It-It’s pretty. Don’t listen to him, okay? Ever.”

“Jas—” A distinct cracking sound made Violet’s breath hitch, then something like a womp made her stomach jump up into her throat. The next sensation was very hard and cold. There was pain in her leg and arm, and she felt dizzy—spinning, although there was no way she could have been.

And then nothing. There was nothing at all after that.