Beloved.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off of the word.

  Beloved.

  I picked the parchment up with trembling fingers.

  Beloved.

  I ran. Clutching the book, the note, and the candle, I fled to my room. For the first time in my life, I locked the door. Then I threw myself onto the bed to examine my treasure more closely.

  To my beloved Brin, the light of my life,

  My kind, beautiful, clever daughter. I love you so much more than I could ever put into words.

  I wish I had time to write more than just one letter. I wish I could write a lifetime's worth! But fate seems to have dictated that I only have this one.

  So I will do my best to make it count.

  I’ll start with the most important thing; I love you. More than I could ever say. More than you can know. I love you. I have loved you for years. For most of my life.

  Durst has told you some of who I was, but not all. Please, don’t be angry with him. Any truth he withheld was by my request.

  My name was Fia Damelle. I grew up in Fellbrook. My parents died of illness when I was a child, and most of my life was spent living with Durst and his brothers.

  You know all this.

  But there’s something else.

  Ever since I was very young, I have had an extraordinary and powerful gift.

  I had dreams of the future.

  It’s a shocking thing for one to claim, I know. I have never met another person like me. But it’s true. It has been a wonderful- and at times, very difficult- gift.

  And long before you were ever born… I saw you.

  I knew you.

  I saw you learn to read and write. I saw you scrape your knees while climbing trees with Royce. I saw you enjoy your twelfth birthday cake with sweet Marion. I heard you sing to the witchwood, watched you brush tangles out of your hair. I felt the swell of pride when you were four and learned to tie your bootlaces all by yourself.

  I wish, so very much, that I could have been there to share all of that with you in person.

  And I see so much ahead of you.

  I love you. You have been adored and planned for and treasured beyond measure. Always remember this.

  And now… the complicated part.

  The future is a funny thing. I can’t write every step of your life down in this letter, as much as I might want to offer advice and reassurance. But I do have something very special that I can give you; my way of offering guidance.

  This is your runebook. Yours.

  It's something I’ve put together over the years. It shows all the magic I see you use. Yes, as incredible of a thought as it is, you are capable of truly astounding magic. The first page is the rune you'll use first, and the last... it's the last thing I see of you, my darling. I don't mean to frighten you by saying that, I only mean to apologize for not having any guidance to offer beyond... well, you'll see what happens when you use it.

  One night, when you are a beautiful, clever, brave young woman, Durst will ask you to do something. It will be very difficult. It’s very important that you do as he says. He’ll know when it’s time.

  I am so proud of you. Seeing you learn and grow- even though it's not quite the way I would have liked, right there beside you- has been the most wonderful gift of my life.

  Your loving mother,

  Fia

  P.S. Look at it every night. Be brave.

  I read it over and over and over again. The candle burned out and I lit another. I wept over the words.

  Finally I dared to open the large book to its first page. The first bit of magic I would use, if what my mother had written was true. I could scarcely wrap my mind around the idea.

  Magic.

  Magic.

  I knew what runekeepers were, though Fellbrook had none; blessed people who could use the gods’ long-dead language. Such individuals were incredibly rare, and the thought that I might be one of them… it just didn’t seem possible.

  On the first page of the there book was... a gracefully curved circle, sketched in stark black ink, with a slash cutting it into disproportionate halves. Underneath the curious shape were letters scrawled tidily, forming an entirely unfamiliar word. Ulen.

  Nothing more; no description of what the symbol meant. No guidance on what to do with it. It wasn’t a particularly awe-inspiring picture, but looking at it for more than a few seconds made my heart pound and my eyes burn. I closed them and shook my head, then closed the book.

  The rest of the night passed in a blur. I reread the parchment over and over, and took it with me as I went to sit down at the kitchen table and eat a cold, bland dinner that Durst had left out. Sometime during my meal I thought about what my mother was claiming- that I could do magic, me- and absently traced the symbol from the book onto the table.

  And it stayed.

  It was as if I’d carved an odd little shape into the very air itself. It hung before my eyes, shivering with pale light. I stared, pulse pounding, and whispered the strange word.

  There was a sharp, pungent smell, like burnt hair. My heartbeat swelled to a roar in my ears.

  Then everything went black.

  Some time later I woke up in a heap next to the chair, feeling as though my chest was packed with hot coals. I climbed to my feet in bewilderment. My dinner was a charred heap, covered in lumps of clear salt, and smoking- along with a portion of the table around the blackened plate. I stood there, stunned, before bursting into tears at the realization that whatever I had just done- magic, actual magic, me- could have damaged my mother’s letter.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I confronted Durst the next morning.

  “She said I had to wait.” He passed one hand over his eyes. His voice, usually steady and deep, was strained. “Said you’d try the magic too early, might get hurt… said you’d find it yourself, when you turned twelve.” He barked a laugh that sounded a bit like a sob.

  I teetered back in my chair, feeling very small and frightened at the sight of strong, dauntless Durst so vulnerable.

  He drew a ragged breath. “Said you’d ask me about it.”

  I didn’t have any idea what to say. Part of me was impossibly angry, angrier than I’d even known I could be. That part wanted to shout at him, probably for the first time in either of our lives. And half of me wanted to rush to the other side of the table. Wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. Tell him it was okay.

  The image of Durst’s bed with its mismatched sides flashed into my mind. The anger faltered.

  “Well… I’m asking,” I finally said. Whispered, really.

  His corded arms braced against the table. Dark eyes searched mine. “What do you want to know?”

  I didn’t quite know where to start. Finally I breathed, “Could she really see the future?”

  Durst’s thin lips twisted into a quite unusual shape; thoughtful and sad and angry all at the same time. “She could. Aye. The dreams started when she was little- seven, maybe eight? She told me, and a few other people, but that was it. She was scared; thought she was Fae-cursed and would be locked up. Scared me, too, but I loved her like a sister and never told a soul. A few months in, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that her visions were true. I think I lost count of the times she’d tell me something, and before I knew it it’d happen, it’d be real…”

  He seemed to stare right through me. “Told me I’d meet my Hester on a trip to Rumsford. Didn’t say her name, just said… said to watch for a girl in a green dress. Hair the color of sunshine. Eyes like a river. And a smile that…” his voice cracked. He closed his eyes. “Said she’d be carrying a basket of herbs. Took my… my breath away. Stood there and stared, like a fool. I was eighteen. Married her within a year. Would’ve… would’ve done it that day.” Tears dripped down his cheeks and were swallowed up by his dark beard.

  I didn’t know what to say in the face of such grief. I curled my knees up and rested my chin on them. After a long silence he steadied himself and pressed on.

  “Fia showed up one morning, pounding on the door. Said she had to leave Fellbrook, travel up to Respite and meet someone. Never told me who. Said she’d come back. A few years later, there she was at the front door again. Rounded belly, and the biggest smile on her face. Asked if she could stay with me and my… my Hester. Of course she already knew we’d say yes. You came along a few months later, and she… ashes, kid. She loved you. She’d spend hours just looking at you, holding your little hands…”

  I felt hot tears sliding down my own face and, before I could stop myself, burst out, “This doesn’t make any sense! Why did she… if she could see the future, why did she die?! If she could see everything, if she knew... I don't get it! She said she loved me, so why did she… how could she let herself... die..." I buried my face in my hands, sobbing. Confused and angry and heartbroken all at once.

  Durst was at my side a moment later. He knelt beside my chair. One heavy arm wrapped around my narrow, shaking shoulders. His forehead pressed against mine, but he didn’t say anything. He just let me cry.

  Minutes crawled by. Gradually my sobs turned into breathy hiccups.

  "I knew Fia my whole life, Brin." His rumbling voice threatened to break, but he soldiered on. "She... the way her gift worked, the way she’d try to explain it..." He cupped one warm, calloused palm against my wet cheek. "If she said something had to happen, had to, I didn’t doubt her. Not for a moment. She said… she told me the night it happened… the night the Fae came… told me it was her or you. Told me so calmly, like it was the simplest thing in the world. Told me right here in this room. I’d never been so scared in my life.”

  Staring at him now, just inches apart, I realized how old he seemed; his face was lined with sorrow, eyes shadowed and weary. Grief had made him ancient.

  I let my gaze wander to the window. The sun was rising, unwittingly cheerful. Our small, mournful kitchen was incongruously bathed in warm pinks and golds.

  "She said a lot of things that night. I... I didn't understand most of it." His chest swelled with a heavy sigh. "At least, not until afterwards. She told me to stay with my… my Hester. Said she was sorry. Told me about her letter and her book and where I should keep them. Looked me in the eye and made me vow to honor her wishes.”

  Durst bowed his head. Defeated.

  My throat felt impossibly thick. “And what about… she said you’re going to tell me to do something. When… when I’m older.”

  His shoulders shook. “I am. I am, kid. And I promised her I wouldn’t say a word until then.”

  I hadn't asked again. Days and months and years stretched on, but things were... different.

  Better.

  Durst was still quiet, but there was more warmth to him. As I grew older, I wondered if his secrets about my mother had been weighing on him. Like a great, heavy stone he just couldn't put down.

  Sometimes I thought about all he had lost on that awful night. I wondered if he was angry at my mother. If he resented her, blamed her, blamed me.

  I was never quite brave enough to ask.

  The runebook was… painful. I looked through it often, but no page was ever more than curious, foreign symbols and words without any explanation as to their purpose. Eventually I showed Brother Clem, whose wrinkled face had gone stark white at the sight of such blatantly scribed magic. He claimed not to recognize any of the symbols and cautioned me fiercely about trying to use them, claiming that at best I’d perform unknown magic and at worst I’d… well, die.

  Ancient divine power, he told me bluntly, was not to be trifled with.

  I'd looked through each page hungrily, over and over again, my curiosity and confusion only growing with time. And almost always... it would hurt. As I'd flip through to the latter half of the book, it would get worse. Towards the back... salt, it was like staring at the sun and being plunged upside down into darkness all at the same time. Simply glancing at some of the later runes would make my heart pound uncontrollably.

  But my mother's letter had said to look at it every night, and I did so diligently. And every night, if I was lucky, I went to bed with a sharp headache and burning eyelids. If I was unlucky, I’d vomit or faint.

  After a few months, I was bold enough to try the first symbol again. It had done something to my dinner, so food was what I decided to experiment with. And after a series of small mishaps involving spicy curdled milk, smoking lettuce, a crust of bread that tasted like a copper coin, and two small kitchen fires... I could just do it. I'd trace my fingers through the air in the shape of that odd symbol, whisper the unusual word, and then the food before me would taste... well, after lots of practice, like whatever I wanted. It became a kind of game I'd play, changing how things were flavored. Sometimes I attempted the magic on things aside from food and drinks, but it never did anything.

  As years went by, I timidly tried more of the runes. My results were almost always either nonexistent or bad- at first. But with practice, I could manage a few surprising little things; I could make tiny rainshowers and small beads of warm, sunny light. Not much compared to the runekeepers of history, saints who could call down stars or part the waters of an ocean, but I thought it was amazing. I'd swell with pride upon watering Miss Freth’s garden or fixing the flavor of something Durst attempted to cook.

  And I began talking to my mom about it all, too.

  At some point, while rereading her letter for the thousandth time, it occurred to me that... in a way, she was there. Perhaps not all the time, perhaps not even often. But at some point, years ago, she had seen visions of me doing... well, anything.

  I could, in some small way, share my life with her; and suddenly anytime I was alone I found myself chattering away to the air, about nothing and everything, hoping that she may have heard me long ago.

  By the Harvest of my twenty-second birthday I spent my mornings helping Miss Freth with her garden- mostly with actual physical labor, since there's only so much tiny rainclouds can do- and my afternoons tending tirelessly to the witchwood. My evenings were spent in quiet camaraderie with Durst.

  And every night, with a flickering candle at my bedside, I would stare into the runebook. Dizzy and breathless in the silence.

  But it was not the pressing silence of my childhood. It was not an empty stillness, not one in which I longed for company.

  It was a quiet in which a single word echoed through the back of my mind. Declared itself boldly in the depths of my heart.

  Beloved.

  And I would smile.