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Kanne’s nerves sing electric when she meets the girl’s eyes. She inhales sharply, wondering at the icy tick of adrenaline that courses through her. There is something about the girl that needles Kanne—a strange quality that intrigues more than annoys. Kanne can’t call the feeling familiarity, though perhaps it is. Butterflies swirl and tangle their gossamer wings in her belly. What is this pull to weave through their seated peers, squeeze in beside the girl, and ask her who she is? Had they taken Ruins & Ruination together? Passed each other in the halls? Bumped elbows in the greenhouse?
The pomp and circumstance of the university’s moving up ceremony is lost on Kanne. She’d been so deeply excited to announce her pledge to the College of Curses & Baneful Magicks after finishing her prerequisite courses: the department’s prestige is the sole reason Kanne had chosen this mage academy over other universities, after all. Now her years of pent up excitement flag, blown out like a midnight candle all because she can’t stop herself from sneaking sidelong glances at the mage across the hall. Embarrassingly, the girl has caught Kanne’s gaze more than a few times and now stares back openly. Her lips seem to curve down in increments: the more Kanne stares, the more the silver-haired mage frowns.
Kanne almost misses her cue to walk across the stage and present her pledge. When the ceremony ends, Kanne stands, spinning toward the curious mage. She’ll confront her; she has to—this business of not knowing is torture. She’s too late, though. Amidst the swell of bodies, she loses sight of the girl.
Sickness washes over Lawine in waves: some small and easily brushed aside, others consuming and threatening to turn Lawine’s stomach. Why, why why?
Why here of all places? Why her?
Lawine all but slams the door of her dorm behind herself. Why Kanne? Why now… after all these years?
Boiling irritation burns through Lawine’s nausea. Anger takes the place of her fear and worry and longing and heartbreak. How has she spent the past two years at this university without bumping into her former childhood friend? The odds were against her in staggering proportions, and now her luck has run out.
Lawine doesn’t know what’s worse: the fact that after all these years she’s still detestably devastated by their falling out, or the reality that Kanne is so clearly drawn to her despite so obviously having no clue who Lawine is.
The accident that left Kanne with an irreversible gap in her memory ruined not one but two lives. Lawine cannot forgive Kanne for forgetting her; she cannot forgive her best friend—the bravest girl she knew—for becoming cowardly. And above all else, she cannot forgive herself for being too proud to change with Kanne; she cannot stomach the misplaced resentment that Kanne does not deserve but that wells in Lawine nevertheless.
They had tried. Lawine told Kanne all about their friendship, and Kanne had tried—really, truly, honestly, with all of the kindness and love in her heart tried—to be the friend that Lawine loved. But she was not the same, and Lawine was hurt and said things she regretted but could not take back. So Kanne left to form new friendships and walk a new path in life that did not involve bitter, brokenhearted Lawine.
Time carried on and the girls grew up, new growth hiding old scars: Kanne cursed to forget and Lawine cursed to remember. And remember she did. Meanwhile, Kanne must have forgotten those painful days post-accident. They were so few in number, after all; nothing compared to the years that Lawine wears like chains.
Rain plinks against the dorm’s windows, the shower obscuring the setting sun. With a heavy sigh, Lawine opens the smallest window, letting the sound of water dashing against flagstone lull her ire.
“Welcome to the College of Curses and Baneful Magicks, Miss Kanne. Allow me to introduce your lab partner. Miss Lawine? A moment?”
Kanne’s heart skips a beat. ‘Lawine’ is a name that should appear in gilded script, the L and W looping, the N a perfect slope, and the E curling into a lavish flourish.
Her advisor beckons at the mage who’s seated at the large central table of their college’s office. “Miss Lawine?”
Lawine looks up through her silver fringe. Shock flashes like a sheet of lightning across her skin, schooled away quickly and replaced by a sour scowl. Kanne’s excitement falters. This is her—that mage from the moving up ceremony. She’s even more familiar today than before. Kanne swallows and clutches her bag tighter as Lawine stands, smoothing wrinkles from her skirts before she steps forward to Kanne and her advisor.
“I’m sorry, there must be some mixup.” There’s a tightness to Lawine’s gaze as it bores into Kanne’s advisor. “I was approved for independent study.”
“Yes, that is true, and I am so sorry to say this but…” Kanne’s advisor waves a hand, the gesture somehow both apologetic and dismissive. “...you see, Miss Kanne’s work requires a partner of your caliber, and you are the only student of such rank and experience available at present.”
“What?” Lawine’s expression pinches. Kanne fights back a giggle. Her unwilling partner’s oh-so serious countenance betrays her petulance; there’s a childish quality to her haughtiness that Kanne finds strangely endearing.
“I am merely the messenger.”
“Well, carry this message then: I cannot work with her; I will not work with her. I am not available.”
Kanne almost expects Lawine to stomp her foot for emphasis. Instead, Lawine tosses her cascading silver hair over her shoulder and glowers with impressive severity.
Now it is Kanne’s advisor who frowns. “You misunderstand me, Miss Lawine. Your petition to study independently has been rejected. If you wish to study under the College of Curses and Baneful Magicks, then you are available, and you will work with Miss Kanne. Do you understand now?”
A flush heats Kanne’s face. She cannot help but feel that Lawine’s distaste is personal. Embarrassment flames in Kanne’s chest.
“So I have no choice in this matter?” Lawine asks, lips drawing into a thin line.
“There is always a choice, Miss Lawine. You’ll do well to remember that during the coming weeks. Now enough. Come, the both of you. Your assignment is ready.”
Lawine trails after Kanne and their advisor into the college’s storage room.
“Your assignment,” the woman notes, passing the girls identical scrolls. “Your task is simple… on paper. In practice? Much harder.”
“A cursed grimoire?” Kanne’s eyes widen as she skims the contents of her scroll.
Lawine’s stomach twists, and she tears her gaze from Kanne. She unrolls her copy of the scroll and reads.
“Yes.” Their advisor nods and paraphrases the contents of the scroll: “Curse type: cursed object—the grimoire, naturally. Your objective? To remove the curse from the cursed object without damaging or removing the objects’ magical power and to document the process and ensure reproducibility. Here’s what we know: first, being near the cursed grimoire causes mood swings—predominantly negative emotions like mild irritation or annoyance—second, touching the cursed object results in delirium, melodrama, temporary insanity, rash decision making and low impulse control; and third, the grimoire is said to house some of the realm’s greatest lost spells. There are no known spells for lifting the curse. Destruction of this grimoire would be considered a great loss and a huge embarrassment to not only our little college of curses but also to the Academy of Magic itself. Your first steps are data collection. Any questions?”
Lawine has none and Kanne a few, though none of importance in Lawine’s mind.
“You are responsible for checking the grimoire in and out of storage.”
When their advisor finally leaves, Kanne turns to Lawine with a nervous smile. “Well, I guess there’s no solving this one by happenstance, huh?”
Lawine grits her teeth so hard a twinge of pain sparks along her jaw.
Data collection is a chore. That’s to be expected. The pair’s initial observations align with information they already have—there is nothing new to be learned through standard methods.
“We could try… touching it?” Kanne suggests tentatively.
“Are you stupid?” Lawine snaps and then sighs. “Sorry, we’ve had it out too long today.”
‘It’ has, indeed, been out too long: the cursed grimoire’s proximity to the girls has already caused several bouts of bickering; unexpected sobbing (Kanne); a vicious tirade (Lawine); and a fleeting but embarrassing interaction between the pair in which Kanne thought Lawine had reached for her hand and, in response, had clasped the other girl’s hand and clutched it to her chest, beaming as if she’d won a fine prize—this incident incited a second tirade, albeit a far less scathing one than the first.
Kanne is certain her cheeks will maintain their cherry-red hue for at least an hour after they part. She fans herself with her notes and groans.
“Well, we’ve already dealt with so much,” she muses. “The curse can’t really get much worse, can it? We’re already at each other’s throats without any real reason to be. It’s unpleasant but can’t be helped—we may as well see if methods that involve touching it can help us make a breakthrough.”
From opposite sides of their workbench, it is impossible not to notice the way Lawine cowers back at these words. Kanne’s brow furrows. Lawine is no coward; it is odd for her to respond this way. Has Kanne misspoke somehow? Has she said something wrong?
“No real reason to be…”
No real reason? Lawine’s blood runs cold through her veins. She has every reason to be at Kanne’s throat. No, that’s not right; that is the grimoire’s influence. She has every reason to be uncomfortable; she has every reason to fear the grimoire’s power when it is coupled with Kanne’s presence, her warmth, her smile, her inquisitive nature. She does not, however, have a justifiable excuse for erupting on Kanne all because the girl touched her hand and the touch did something to Lawine’s guarded heart.
So that’s what this Kanne feels like. She lets the thought bloom in her mind. Once upon a time, Lawine had known Kanne’s touch: she’d known her hugs and the feeling of Kanne’s fingers trailing through her hair as she twisted strands into braids; she’d known the press of her hand as they ran through fields together, fingers interlaced, and the heat of her body as they lay under star-speckled skies, side by side.
“So, uh… can you be the one?” Kanne asks, hope brimming in her charming doe-eyes.
“Huh?” Lawine rubs a thumb along the wood grain of her bench in an attempt to ground herself.
“The one that touches it.” A nervous laugh bubbles out of Kanne. “I just… uh…”
It’s idiotic, of course—Kanne’s insistence that things cannot get worse. They can only get worse. She should realize this. Nevertheless, Lawine surrenders to Kanne: her stubbornness and her better sense.
With a hand gloved in enchantments, Lawine places a palm on the grimoire.
Great tremors rock the room. Kanne feels the vibrations from the top of her head down to her toes. Her movements are sluggish as jerks her head, looking around frantically. This magic will bring the tower down; it will leave their lab in ruin, spilling bottles and books and baubles to the floor. Except… nothing falls, and the tremors subside.
And Kanne wishes desperately that a pit would open up beneath her feet and swallow her down whole when she realizes why. Those tremors were no magic, nor were they caused by any natural forces.
They were just her own body betraying her, embarrassing her further, as shock crashes over her the same way choppy waves might beat a rock-studded shore. She’s caught in a riptide of emotion, and it burns—the truth and its weight burn.
She knows why Lawine has felt so familiar all this time, and she knows why Lawine hadn’t been able to stomach looking at her when they first started working together—a habit she’d only hung up recently.
She knows Lawine. No, she knew her. She should know her, but she does not. And Lawine knew, and now Kanne knows.
She knows, but she does not remember.
And that feels worse than the shock itself.
It was Lawine that had crumpled—folding in on herself, shrieking and howling—when she touched the grimoire. Her body had jerked, and it seemed as though the grimoire had adhered itself to her flesh; her hand never moved from the cursed thing, but she drew it into herself, almost as if her body might be capable of absorbing it. When Lawine’s legs gave out, Kanne lunged forward. She was too slow to catch the girl as she collapsed to the floor, writhing.
Fear had roared in Kanne’s chest. She felt out of her depth, useless and weak. Shame had reared its head then. If she could not help Lawine, how could she ever hope to lift the grimoire’s curse. How would she ever hope to lift her own?
Prying the grimoire from Lawine had proven to be a herculean task and one that did not leave her unscathed.
“I wish it had been me,” Lawine bawled. one arm wrapped protectively around the grimoire, the other fisted in Kanne’s sleeve. “I wish I was the one that forgot you… Cursed?” She laughed, the sound a bitter, twisted, dying thing that wilted in the air. “The real curse is spending every waking moment with the girl that broke my heart, and she doesn’t even know she’s done it!”
Kanne had blanched at that.
“Gods,” Lawine spat. “Even now, you know nothing!”
This may have been when the tremors began, but Kanne did not take notice of them until Lawine delivered her killing blow:
“It’s like you died, but you didn’t. And here you are! Here you are! Truly, we’d all be better off if you had.”
The words had rung through the room like great bells.
Now they echo in Kanne’s ears. She staggers forward. There is pain, so much pain that she does not understand. All she knows is that she has to shut up Lawine; she has to make it all stop, and the only way to do so is to get that grimoire out of Lawine’s hands.
She is not fully conscious of how exactly she removes the grimoire from Lawine’s grasp, but it does involve touching the thing.
The moment Kanne’s skin connects with the grimoire’s spine, she feels a surge of raw, undiluted power ripple through her. Enough to level a small city, she thinks. The world seems to flicker at its edges, and Kanne feels as though her very existence is deteriorating and multiplying simultaneously. She loses millions of microscopic pieces of herself and catches slivers of memories that do not belong to her as they flash behind unseeing eyes.
If Kanne were a kettle, she’d be whistling, steam pouring from her spout and lid rattling.
It is all too much.
When Kanne falls, she does not try to catch herself.
It is their advisor that finds them, sprawled and unconscious on the floor with the grimoire between them. They do not know this until she tells them in the infirmary between reprimands.
Kanne and Lawine do not speak for over a week.
“According to this scroll, curses are nearly impossible to obstruct; we cannot use defensive magic, and there is a footnote about divine magic, um no, Goddess magic.” Kanne stares at the writing on the yellowing scroll as if being doubly studious will eliminate the unbearable tension that entered the room along with Lawine.
They have yet to speak about the incident, and Kanne is certain that Lawine won’t. Meanwhile, she has dedicated her every effort to holding in the barrage of questions that threaten to spill out every time she so much as glances in Lawine’s direction.
“Neither of us are blessed by the Goddess.” It’s only a statement, but Lawine’s words feel accusatory. “And there is nothing to obstruct: the grimoire is already cursed; we aren’t trying to prevent it from becoming cursed.”
Kanne grimaces. “Right… well, I guess we could try giving it a good whack.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, hitting it?”
“Okay, here’s another idea, then… We pour in as much mana as we can. Alternatively, we see how much mana we can siphon out.”
Lawine does not see how this will help, but she keeps that thought to herself. “What could go wrong?” she asks dryly.
As it turns out, nothing much happens: the girls have little success siphoning out mana, and pouring mana into the grimoire only seems to temporarily strengthen its effects.
When Kanne isn’t looking, Lawine gives the grimoire what she imagines constitutes a good whack; this method proves as fruitless as she suspected it would.
In this manner, days stretch into weeks.
It is a clear, snow-capped night in the depths of winter when Lawine finally approves of a suggestion that comes from Kanne.
Naturally, Kanne is elated. They still haven’t discussed their shared past or Lawine’s episode, and Kanne hunts for signs—no matter how small—that indicate Lawine’s words that day had been only partial truths.
“How do you propose we do that?”
“Think of the mana like a braid or knot.” Kanne holds up a rough sketch and taps the center. Her finger hovers over a mess of lines that loop and swirl and overlap. “We need to untangle them, and then we can pull the threads free.”
“Threads…” Lawine echos, her face etched with skepticism.
“Yes, that’s how I’m conceptualizing the curse—like a net almost. If we can work it free, I think we’ll be able to open the grimoire, but it’s not enough to think of it that way. We have to believe, without a doubt, that we can unweave the curse.”
“And that will be reproducible?”
“If we say that it is, then yes.” Kanne nods.
“Do you think,” Lawine pauses, her hesitation catching Kanne’s full attention, “we’ll be able to use this solution on other curses?”
For some inexplicable reason, a knot forms in Kanne’s chest. “We can try.”
Hope and fear collide in Lawine’s chest. Kanne had insisted on time; patience was key, she’d said. At first, Lawine hadn’t understood, but Kanne explained simply: “Believing takes time.”
Now, Lawine holds her breath as she assists Kanne in her preparations. Success is paramount. Today is not the day for bickering or insults. One wrong word could tarnish this plan.
Lawine plasters her tongue to the roof of the mouth. She won’t speak unless spoken to; she will not ruin this for Kanne, for herself.
When the time comes, Lawine is awestruck by the simplicity of it all. She watches Kanne as her fingers pull and twist through the air. Kanne teases strands of magic apart with reverence. She is deep in concentration, her tongue peaking out from behind her lips. Lawine wonders if Kanne wore this face back in the days when she braided Lawine’s hair.
There’s an enchanting grace with which Kanne pulls each thread of the curse free. Lawine watches as Kanne’s fingers glow with a gentle green light.
“That’s it, I think.”
“That’s it?” Lawine’s heart soars into her throat. “And you think it worked this time?”
“There’s one surefire way to find out.” Kanne beams.
Nerves threaten to overtake Kanne. She sits opposite Lawine in her dorm room of all places. This is the first time they’ve met outside of their usual tower. It has been precisely two weeks since they lifted the curse on that old grimoire and found—much to the college’s chagrin—that, really, it wasn’t a grimoire at all but rather a cookbook with kitchen spells jotted in the margins.
Lawine had been exasperated while Kanne had been amused. She felt in her heart that there was someone—somewhere—that would likely enjoy this particular cookbook very much. She hoped that person would someday find their way to it.
“Are you ready?”
“If you are.” Kanne smiles and closes her eyes.
A pleasant warmth envelopes her as Lawine begins pulling at her loose threads. She feels a tug here and a tug there, and then a wave of heat rolls through her.
“Lawine.”
Her name isn’t what Lawine expects to hear first from Kanne. She’d hoped to hear something to the effect of “Yes, the curse is lifted” or “No, I still don’t remember anything.”
“Lawine,” Kanne says again, this time softer and somehow warmer.
And then there is a flurry of limbs as Kanne crashes into Lawine; she crushes Lawine to her as if they are meant to be one, as if she might invite Lawine to share her blood and flesh.
“How odd and terrifying,” Kanne blubbers against Lawine’s neck. “I remember and I don’t. It’s as if I’ve always known and time eroded the memories. I remember. I remember. I remember it all, Lawine, and yet… it is all a blur. Is that how you remember me? Am I a blur in your memories?”
“This is how I remember you,” Lawine murmurs, wrapping her arms around Kanne to hug her back. “The rest doesn’t matter.” She says this because she needs it to be true. She hopes that one day it will be, even if it takes time. She needs to forgive herself as much as she needs Kanne’s forgiveness. She has done horrible things. She has said worse things, then and recently.
“I don’t know if I am that person anymore,” Kanne whispers. “Remembering might not be enough. Can you forgive me?”
Forgive Kanne?
Lawine’s heart squeezes. “I’ll forgive anything if you can forgive me. I was stubborn and awful. I still might be. Maybe I always was.” These words are selfish and not for a lack of awareness. Lawine knows it. She just cannot force out the words she really wants to say: “I’m sorry. It was always me. Never you. I should have loved you as you were from the start. I should have found a way. I should have found you after that fight and apologized. You were hurt and scared and lost; you had forgotten years of your life. If you can’t forgive that, I understand.”
“Of course. How could I not?” Kanne’s breath is warm on Lawine’s skin, sending a shiver down her spine. “You’re my best friend, Lawine. If you’ll take me back, I’m yours.”