Rewrite That Witch
CH479 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 479: Choice of Nightingale’s Heart

These days, Wendy’s life was full in a way that surprised her.

Paper—true to her name—had absorbed everything quickly. She made fast progress in reading and writing, in natural philosophy, in the fundamental knowledge that the prince expected all his witches to carry. She could already build new vocabulary on her own. The only worry was that on occasion she raised questions Wendy could not answer, which meant bringing in Anna or Roland—not an embarrassment, exactly, but a reminder.

Summer was slower, and the difference might have been age. Every new word had to be repeated several times before it settled. Natural knowledge confused her. But Wendy had patience and time, and neither was in short supply at the moment. In truth, if all her students had been as quick as Anna, it would have been its own problem—she would have had nothing left to teach.

Each morning, Wendy called both girls to the living room to go through the previous day’s work. This was in line with what His Highness had told all the teachers in the Department of Education: knowledge learned without practice is forgotten quickly; only through regular use does it take root. Wendy agreed completely.

After the morning review came practical magic work. Paper could assist Agatha in producing acid, or go to the shipyard to help cure cement faster. For that, Wendy simply pointed her toward the right room and let her go. The main teaching fell on Summer, who would soon be joining Nightingale in the Security Bureau—her ability to reverse time at crime scenes was exactly what the Bureau needed, and that meant learning precise control above all else.

Fortunately, using magic ability was as natural as breathing to a witch. Even the slowest students found the right motion once they felt their way into it. Wendy often cited Maggie to encourage Summer: if a pigeon could evolve, a regular witch had nothing to fear. After each such lesson she would quietly bring Maggie a few pieces of honey roast meat.

The elementary classes ran in the evenings. His Highness had divided the Witch Union into two tracks based on experience and pace. The earlier arrivals worked with Scroll on advanced material and had begun elementary physics and chemistry. The newer arrivals received extra tuition from Wendy after the standard lessons.

This was the most restful part of her day.

As the first Association witch to join the Union, Wendy had widened the distance between herself and the others through steady study—a gap that, whenever she remembered it, made her feel the full weight of the role His Highness had given her. Manager of the Association. She was still working out what that meant.

Only in these evening lessons, teaching the newcomers, did she feel truly free. There was no weight in it. She could give herself completely.

She finished assigning homework to the two girls and went to draw a hot bath. When she returned to her bedroom wrapped in warmth and drowsiness, she found Nightingale already there—sitting on the edge of the bed with a copy of Natural Science Theoretical Foundation open in her lap, staring at nothing.

She was definitely not reading it. If she had been reading it, she would have fallen asleep within minutes.

“What’s wrong?” Wendy turned back the quilt and climbed up beside her.

Nightingale shifted slightly, and her face turned just enough for Wendy to see. The expression there made Wendy’s breath catch. She had seen it before—once, in Silver City, the first time they met. Nightingale had been walking through the snow alone, empty of direction, letting the flakes settle on her shoulders without brushing them away.

“His Highness and Anna—they’re together now,” Nightingale murmured. “And it was I who encouraged him.”

Wendy said nothing. She had noticed how close the two had grown, but it had seemed natural—expected, even. Anna was the first witch His Highness had met. She was impeccable in almost every way; Scroll had long considered her the most suitable candidate for Queen. The only unexpected thing was that Nightingale had been the one to push him forward.

“I had prepared myself. I knew this was how it would end.” Nightingale’s hand found Wendy’s and held it tightly. “But seeing them—seeing them together—why does it still hurt like this? I had resolved it. I had.”

Wendy felt bad for her, bad in a way that had nothing to do with being able to help. The Nightingale she knew was strength: the woman who had walked into Silver City and stabbed her own distant relative without hesitating; who had held her composure against the church’s worst; who had faced Cara without flinching. On every field where it mattered, she remained. But on this—in this—she became something unprotected. And Wendy had nothing to offer that could change it.

There is no right or wrong with feelings. There is only what is.

All she could do was put her arms around her.

“If you need to cry,” Wendy said quietly, “cry. You’ll feel better after.”

“No.” Nightingale shook her head. “When I left the Gilen family, I swore I would never cry again. Never again.” Her voice dropped until it was barely sound. “Not once more.”

Then the warmth came—a spreading dampness against Wendy’s chest. Nightingale made no sound at all. No whimper, no sob. Only her shoulders shaking, and the force with which she held on.

“I didn’t cry,” she said.

“I know,” Wendy said. “I know.”

She closed her eyes. She had told Nightingale, once, that staying near His Highness was a simple solution. And she had believed it. What she had not understood then—what she understood now—was that most witches chose proximity because they had nowhere else to go, and because the chance of Roland accepting and marrying a witch who could not bear children was so small that proximity cost nothing. It was safe to stand near the sun when you did not intend to move any closer.

But Nightingale had never intended to watch from a distance.

And that was not the same path at all.

“What about letting go?” Wendy asked, gently. “If you stepped back, you’d still have all of us.”

The silence that followed was long enough to feel like a verdict being deliberated. Wendy sat motionless inside it, several times almost speaking, each time swallowing the words back.

Then Nightingale raised her head.

Her eyes were faintly red. The dampness on Wendy’s chest—she was no longer sure whether it was real or her own imagining. But in Nightingale’s expression, she could see that something had been decided. Not ended. Decided.

“I won’t give up.” Nightingale shook her head once. “Whatever happens—I’ll stay beside him until the very end.”

She didn’t mind being burned to ash.

That was her answer.

Discussion

Suggest a change