30 | Psychopomp Magazine
my brother won’t hurry, and neither will I. Witches never rush, no matter how bad things get.
My hands itch. Bits of color are leaking from between my fingers. I wish we had thought this through better and brought a sack. It’s always harder putting things back.
The princesses walk in on us. They’re laughing. We’re going to be in so much trouble when the king and queen come home. So I let the butterflies go. They flutter around the room. They fly out the window, some of them perching upon the flowers blossoming in the dark, among all the beautiful thorns.
The princesses lead me and my brother to our beds, where we will sleep a thousand years until it’s our turn to awaken, or the king and queen come home with stepparents and twenty woodsman in a row to clear out all the thorns and keep us from our witches.
But that’s okay. On my chest is a butterfly not even my brother knows I have, and while I’m asleep I’ll spend all my time thinking about it, until I have learned everything there is to know. ♦