Rewrite That Witch
CH364 · Rewrite
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Chapter 364: Double Image

The snow outside was growing heavier. Flakes the size of a fingernail fell from a white sky and blanketed Border Town — grey elves dancing in the wind, descending together onto rooftops and branch, dissolving into white.

A scene that should have meant only cold.

Yet the colder it grew, the warmer Tilly felt.

She lay back in her deckchair with a woolen blanket tucked over her legs, feet extended toward a fire barrel — that compact invention of Roland’s, charcoal nested inside a square barrel with a horizontal plank to separate foot from flame. It gave what a bonfire could not: steady heat at close range without the scorch. Tucked under a blanket, feet warm on the plank, Tilly found that winter lost most of its argument.

The swirling snow outside accentuated everything inside. The contrast was the pleasure — warmth only means something when the cold is pressing on the glass.

She had to admit that what the witches received in Border Town bore no resemblance to what they had known a year ago. Small wonder none of them wanted to leave. Even she herself had stopped counting the days.

Anna and Agatha were here as well. This was Anna’s bedroom, and whenever a rare stretch of downtime arrived, Tilly brought her books and came here to ask questions. It had started as the two of them; now there were three, an ancient witch newly awakened from four centuries of ruin folded into the arrangement as naturally as though she’d always been part of it. Anna had simply moved the fire barrel from beside her table to the empty center of the room and asked Roland to bring in two more chairs. Three women with their legs overlapping on the plank, sharing warmth, sharing questions, learning things that had no name in any language spoken before Roland Wimbledon came to Border Town.

Most of the time, Tilly and Agatha asked. Anna answered.

“It’s hard to believe a book like this could be written by a mortal.” Agatha closed the cover of Natural Science Theoretical Foundation and drew a long breath. “The more I read, the more I see it — amidst all the chaos, hidden rules. Everything operating by the same laws. If he had been born in Taquila, the Union would have accepted him without hesitation, and he’d have held the rank of a Senior Witch.”

She had asked many questions in the beginning — sharp questions, suspicious ones. But Anna’s patient explanations had worked on her, steadily, the way water works on stone. Agatha’s attitude toward Roland had changed significantly.

Toward Roland. Tilly noted the precision of that. Toward the other mortals, Agatha continued to regard them as slow and unremarkable. That much had not moved.

A sigh escaped her before she could stop it. Only she knew the full shape of what Agatha didn’t — that this knowledge had not grown in Roland Wimbledon. It had arrived in him, intact, from somewhere he himself could not account for.

In these past few days, comparing her own observations against Sylvie’s testimony, Tilly had confirmed as much. But there was no way to prove he was still Roland Wimbledon, and the question had no clean answer: he did not know where the memory came from, or whose it had been. She herself could not separate her knowledge from her life — every time she recalled her court mentor’s lessons, the memory arrived with a body, a room, a specific quality of afternoon light. His didn’t. It was knowledge without a life attached to it.

“Where did he acquire all of this?” Agatha mused, and it was not quite a question. “I had thought mortal research had advanced considerably. After these few days, it seems there’s not much difference from four hundred years ago — and perhaps a little behind.”

“I don’t know either.” Tilly shrugged. “In any case, it couldn’t have come from the palace.”

“What was he like before?”

Anna raised her head.

“Before…” Tilly hesitated. “Arrogant, cowardly, bigoted, ignorant. Unskilled and terrible in every way. His only merit was that he never used his status as a prince to commit anything truly monstrous.”

“So — equal to other mortals?”

“No. Even among mortals, he was considered terrible.” She heard herself and pushed through it. “He improved after coming here. But he still never says what he means — holds everything back and then wants people to trust him anyway. How does that work?”

The room went quiet.

“What’s the matter?” Tilly registered something in the other two’s expressions, a shared look passing at the edge of her attention.

“Nothing.” Anna smiled — lips closed, a small private thing. “This is the first time I’ve heard you speak about him like that.”

The realization arrived late and hit clearly. I’ve complained too much. An ally shouldn’t sound like this. She tried to regroup. “What I mean is—”

“It’s all right.” Anna shook her head, still smiling. “His Highness wouldn’t mind. He probably has his own reasons.”

“Roland…” Tilly moved carefully now. “Has he mentioned any of this to you before?”

“No,” Anna said, easy, unbothered. “I haven’t asked him either. If he wanted to talk about it, he would.”

Of course. Anna had met him already changed; there was no before for her to compare against. The question had no weight for her.

“From what you said, he was a completely different person?” Agatha leaned in, curious now in her peculiar ancient way. “There was a saying in the Quest Society — the more uncommon a person is, the more distinct quirks he has. Perhaps this kind of change is simply a natural occurrence. While in the palace, did Roland howl at the moon? Spend long hours staring at walls and making gestures?”

“What kind of quirks are those?” Tilly shook her head. “Apart from being eccentric in how he did things, he seemed ordinary enough. Though…” She paused. “I heard that once, during a court lesson, he announced publicly that he would marry a witch. Probably because of that, Gerald and Timothy made sport of him in the name of purifying the Devil’s minions — and even his father was displeased. After that, he grew more stubborn and unruly.”

“Discriminated against for wanting to marry a witch?” Agatha curled her lip. “In Taquila, that was a noble ambition. Few succeeded, of course — most witches were unwilling to bind their lives to a single man.”

“We’re not in Taquila, and not four hundred years ago,” Tilly said. “If he married a witch, he would have no children to inherit. Of course his father disapproved.” She paused. “Besides, it’s been more than ten years. He’s most likely forgotten he ever said it.”

“Is he?” Anna spoke softly.

Something in the phrasing stopped Tilly.

“He still says so now,” Anna continued, and there was something quiet and certain in her voice. “His Highness said so himself.”

Tilly’s eyes widened before she could close them.

“You said now?”

“Yes.” Anna laughed, low and gentle. “His Highness said so himself.”

Tilly froze.

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