Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 176: The Answer at the Bottom of One’s Heart

The balloon came down after half an hour, settling into the courtyard with the unhurried authority of something that had made its point.

By then, nearly every member of the Witch Union had gathered — drawn by the spectacle, by Wendy’s alarm, by Scroll’s anxious return from the City Hall at a run that she would later describe as a brisk walk. When Roland climbed out of the basket they converged on him immediately, a chorus of reproach about unnecessary risks and the importance of the Prince remaining physically intact. Roland deflected all of it with the ease of practice: it was perfectly safe, Lightning was right there, Maggie was backup, this is an important new technology—

Nightingale was partway across the courtyard to join the crowd when she stopped.

She had seen Anna climb out after Roland. Had seen Roland give her his hand. Had seen the hairpin that hadn’t been there before — silver, catching the light, tucked into the pale hair at Anna’s temple — and recognized it: the kind of careful, specific gift that came from someone who noticed. The kind Roland made in the workshop during spare hours while teaching the blacksmiths how to operate the boring machines, turning a piece of silver while the lesson ran.

He had made it himself.

The crowd was already organizing another ascent — Nana wanted to go, then Leaves, then everyone. The balloon went up again. The courtyard rearranged itself around the ongoing spectacle.

Nightingale stayed where she was.

She knew what Anna’s expression had meant. She had seen that expression in other women, in the years before Border Town, in the cities where she had spent years watching people closely enough to read what they didn’t say. She had told herself, a long time ago, that she had already made her peace with this. That she had chosen to stay, chosen proximity, chosen to protect — and that this was enough, and that she would not let it be more than enough, because more than enough was where everything became impossible.

What she had not accounted for was seeing it.

The balloon went up and came down and went up again and Nightingale sat against the outer wall of the courtyard and watched the sky and her head was a complete blank.

When she registered Wendy beside her, she didn’t know how long Wendy had been there.

“Don’t you want to try it?” Wendy asked. “The view is worth it.”

Nightingale stood up so fast she startled herself. “I have to go back to the office.”

She said it and went invisible before she finished saying it, which was something she almost never did in the castle yard. Behind her she heard Wendy looking for her with politely confused noises. She took three steps into the corridor and stood still in her own fog and thought: why did I just do that?

She didn’t go to the office.

She went to dinner. She didn’t eat. The dried fish Roland put on the table beside her usual place remained untouched.

When he called her name — tentatively, checking — she tapped his shoulder twice, the fog equivalent of I’m here, I’m fine. He accepted this, because he always accepted this, because he had never pushed past what she offered. Which was its own kind of weight tonight.

After dinner she went to her room and fell backward onto the bed and looked at the ceiling.

Wendy came in and closed the door.

“What happened to you today?”

“Nothing.”

“Nightingale.”

The familiar voice, the familiar cadence, the familiar patience that had never yet given up on her regardless of what she said. She turned away. Then turned back. Then said, very quietly: “Anna.”

Wendy waited.

Nightingale closed her eyes. She didn’t want to say the petty thing. She didn’t want to be the woman who said it. But the alternative was feeling it alone in the dark, which was worse.

“She had the look,” Nightingale said. “After the balloon. He gave her something — he made it himself — and she—” She stopped. “I knew it would happen. I thought I had made my peace with it.”

“I told you,” Wendy said gently, “that he cannot choose a witch. He will need an heir. The nobility—”

“He said he would.”

Wendy went very still.

“He said he would marry a witch. Scroll asked him, once. Directly. He said, ‘Why not?’ And I was there, and I heard him, and he wasn’t lying.” Nightingale opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling. “I’ve been carrying that for a long time.”

The silence lasted for several seconds.

Then Wendy gripped her arm — firmly, the grip of someone who had just received a piece of information they needed to hold carefully.

“You cannot tell anyone,” Wendy said. “Not any of the sisters. Not anyone outside this room.”

“Why?”

“Because a king without an heir has no throne. Even without the Church’s opposition, the local aristocracy would never support him. If this becomes known before he has secured his position—” She held Nightingale’s arm tighter. “The witches’ fate is tied to whether he becomes king or not. This information stays here. Promise me.”

Nightingale nodded.

“Now.” Wendy let go. “Do you want to be queen? Or do you want to stay by his side?”

“I want to stay by his side,” Nightingale said. Without hesitation. Without thinking. The answer had always been the same.

“Then you are already there.” Wendy smiled, and the smile was the kind that came from understanding something difficult that she had thought about before being asked. “There will be a queen. There will only ever be one queen. But whether he sits on the throne or stands in a corridor, he will always need you.” She paused. “What’s difficult for you is not staying. It’s accepting what you’re choosing — and choosing it anyway.”

Nightingale looked at her.

“Can you do that?”

The answer did not come immediately. Nightingale lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling for a long time, and Wendy waited, and the candle burned, and eventually Nightingale closed her eyes.

In the morning, Roland opened his desk drawer and found that the dried fish was gone.

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