Hart of Winter

by Parker Foye

  On the other side of the room sat the one person in the world like him.

  Thierry had let his family think he was dead. All those times Luc had struggled with who and what he was, and he had an uncle with an identical curse living across the Channel who—what, didn’t feel like taking his family’s calls anymore?

  Abruptly looking wasn’t enough. Luc strode across the room, meaning to make the man turn around, but faltered with his hand outstretched between them. His black fingernails caught his eye. Did his uncle have them too? He dropped his hand and circled the table to stand between it and the window and cleared his throat. When the man looked up, Luc’s question became redundant before he spoke it, but he had to hear the answer instead of reading it from his eyes.

  “You are Thierry Dufour?”

  Thierry brushed his hand across his ginger-and-gray whiskers and nodded. “Oui.”

  Luc sat heavily on the bench along the bay window. He blinked and switched to French. “Where—where’ve you been? For, like, twenty years?”

  As if expecting the question, for surely he must have, Thierry sighed. His shoulders slumped. “I was a young man and became lost, as young men do. I thought the curse was all I am and so embraced it entirely.” His mouth twitched beneath his beard, and his eyes went distant. “Changing from one shape to another, time and time again, it is difficult on the body. On magic. But embracing the curse, as shifters do?” He shook his head. “Very simple. I stopped changing back. I don’t know how long I spent in the wood. A long time. Years.”

  “Years?” Luc managed to ask when Thierry fell silent.

  “I had been scared, thinking I would surely die. But every day I kept living. I began to embrace what I—what we are.” Thierry spoke as if he’d practiced telling the story of his life over and over, but when he changed to plural, he came back to himself and met Luc’s eyes. “I remembered Les Menuires—not wholly, just a place on a mountain—and made my way back here. One day I saw little Amandine in the village and remembered myself completely. I return here every winter.”

  “Every winter? Since when? And you didn’t tell anyone?” Luc gripped the edge of the table. To keep himself upright or to stop from leaping over it, he didn’t know.

  “What would I say?” Thierry asked.

  “Fucking—fucking anything.”

  Knowing Thierry lived would have changed Luc’s entire life. He thought about every stupid fight he’d started, every bed he fumbled himself into and stumbled out of in the morning, trying to get ahead of the curse before it took him. He thought about being rejected by magic users and mundane alike and never having anywhere to fit. The shit he’d done to try and fit….

  The flash of temper subsided as quick as it flared, and Luc eased back into his seat. His decisions weren’t Thierry’s fault. The same as Thierry’s decision to run off and be a stag for years wasn’t Luc’s fault. People’s lives were their own.

  Luc could still be annoyed about it, though. He thought that was fair.

  Eyeing Luc curiously, Thierry continued. “This winter I heard another Dufour had returned to Les Menuires. I saw you at the tree.” He smiled as any proud parent might and gestured to Luc. “Look at you! Exactly like my father. You have grown into a fine young man, Lucien.”

  “Just—just Luc.”

  “As you say.” Thierry rubbed the edge of the table with his thumb. His nails were black, exactly like Luc’s. He looked up. “Did you hear why I left?”

  “I heard you went out and never came back.” Luc worked his jaw. “I heard there were hunters. I thought you died.”

  “Hunters, yes. One day they approached me, and I grew scared. I ran.” Thierry smoothed his beard away from his mouth. “For a long time I ran from all people, letting the curse drive me ever deeper into the wood. Then I met the Nessom family. I was lost and very confused. They helped me.”

  “They’re collectors,” Luc bit out, still hung up on the point.

  Thierry nodded. “Of samples, yes, for their mage.”

  “Of—Are you fucking with me?”

  A misunderstanding? Luc had nearly driven himself into a panic attack—he had a panic attack because of a misunderstanding?

  “I’m going to have to kill her,” he muttered in English. When Thierry started, Luc remembered them conversing in English back at the tree. He grimaced and switched back to French. “Not with death, obviously. That doesn’t make sense, does it? She scared me, is all. I’m annoyed and embarrassed. And annoyed.”

  “The girl? Little Harriet?” Thierry asked. When Luc nodded, he laughed. He sounded like Eloise when he laughed. “She has her way but means well. Since we met she has searched for a cursebreaker. I say, no, let it be, but one of her little charms goes zzzt, and off she goes.”

  Then they really were friends, Thierry and the Nessoms. It was all too much. Luc wanted to go home, but he needed to do something first. Resting his hands on the table, he pushed back the sleeve of his coat to expose his lone cuff. He rubbed the leather in its worn places as he’d done countless times before.

  “I suppose you want this back, then,” he managed to say.

  Thierry shook his head with gratifying immediacy. “I left those for you. I wanted you to have a full life.” He frowned. “What happened? Where is the other?”

  “It—it broke.”

  “Merde.”

  Despite the situation, Luc barked a laugh. The sound broke the tension in the room, and after his startled look cleared, Thierry laughed Eloise’s laugh again. They must’ve sounded ridiculous, but for once, Luc didn’t care.

  When the laughter petered out, Luc dared ask where the cuffs had come from. For a moment he didn’t think Thierry would answer, but he rubbed his beard and relented.

  “An old weaver, back in a village—I forget the name.” Thierry waved his hand dismissively as Luc’s hope died in his chest. “A long time ago, when I traveled. No one has the skill anymore. I searched, of course, after you were born, but found nothing. I sent those to you.” His eyes were sad. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think they’d ever break.”

  “Then no other set can be made?”

  Thierry’s mouth twitched behind his beard, but Luc didn’t know how to read the expression. Strange to think he could better read Rob than his uncle. He wondered if Thierry had the same trouble since he’d formed an odd new family with Nessom and her father, apparently. Cursebearers and hunters: what was the world coming to?

  Cursebearers and Curses Anonymous too, pointed out a foolish part of Luc’s brain.

  “Wait here,” Thierry said at length.

  Luc pursed his lips but kept quiet as Thierry left the room. Craning his neck to check Thierry had gone, Luc pulled his phone from his coat pocket. He had a text from Rob. Typing fast, he sent a message to answer Rob’s question about how things were going.

  All okay so far.

  Then he put his phone away, not sure why he wanted to hide it from Thierry. He didn’t know if he wanted to keep Thierry for himself or keep Rob a secret from Thierry. Feelings were weird.

  Thierry returned but didn’t retake his seat. He held a piece of folded-up paper he seemed reluctant to part with, running his fingers along the edges before shaking his head slightly and offering it to Luc.

  “Here,” he said, unhelpfully.

  Luc took the paper, figuring papercuts were the worst that could happen. Belatedly he remembered magic existed, but by then, he’d unfolded the paper. There were two sheets, foxed at the edges and soft at the seams where they’d been folded and refolded, with symbols crammed in every space, broken by diagrams. Most of the copperplate writing seemed to be French. It curved around the edges of the paper, almost illegible.

  He raised his eyebrows at Thierry. “What is this?”

  Thierry’s beard twitched. “The weaver’s pattern.”

  “AND you’re sure it was him?” Eloise took a generous gulp of wine and looked at him. “You’re sure?”

  Rob wished he hadn’t refused a drink. He
pushed Luc’s phone across the kitchen table where he’d been pinned in after Eloise and Amandine crowded him and blocked his exit. It was an alarmingly coordinated strike. The kitchen still smelled like ham and fresh bread, and Rob’s stomach rumbled. They’d never gotten around to lunch. He didn’t want to eat in the Dufour kitchen, though. Not without Luc for protection.

  Luc. He’d gone to his room after Rob managed to get him home, walking like he wasn’t sure how many knees he had. With the sun lowing, Rob didn’t know if the problem was the curse or Luc’s entire life unraveling, as he claimed.

  Rob desperately hoped it was the curse.

  “I’m as sure as Luc,” he said. He tapped the screen of Luc’s phone. “He left this for you. It has a picture.”

  “It’s locked,” Eloise said after trying to open it.

  Amandine tutted and took the phone, unlocking it with one try. Shrugging at Rob and Eloise, she turned around and started chopping something on the counter.

  “She’s very scary,” Rob said, keeping his voice low.

  Eloise inclined her head in agreement. She flicked through Luc’s phone until she found the photograph, which was easy to tell since she dropped the phone. Snatching it back up, she beckoned Amandine.

  “Amandine! Holy hells, look at this.”

  “The number is in there for Harriet Nessom too. That’s Thierry’s contact,” Rob said as the cousins stared at Luc’s phone. “Apparently he’s interested in reconnecting. He’s nervous, Luc says.”

  Rob didn’t mention how Luc said he didn’t want to speak with Thierry again. He didn’t know if the words were fueled by emotional overload or if Luc really meant it, but either way, he didn’t want to state Luc’s decisions for him.

  Amandine muttered in French while Eloise tapped something on her phone. Abruptly Rob remembered his family was elsewhere in the village, and he’d left things unfinished with them. He got to his feet, which made the others look at him. He held up his hands.

  “I’m not telling anyone anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Family stuff is family stuff.” He edged away from the table. “Let me say good night—good afternoon? Whatever. Let me say bye to Luc, and I’ll get going. There’s still time, right?”

  Amandine resumed her angry chopping. Eloise’s mouth twisted, but she checked something on her phone and then shrugged.

  “You’ve got a few minutes, if he wants to speak to you.”

  Not wanting to press his luck, Rob nodded and made a swift exit. He smiled at a guest as they passed in the hallway, the guest looking bemused but nodding a greeting. Rob rapped on Luc’s bedroom door.

  “It’s me. Rob. Lentowicz.”

  “I know which Rob you are,” Luc said, jerking open the door. His smirk was wan but eminently kissable, and Rob indulged himself. Luc closed the door behind him.

  “How did it go?” Luc asked, crossing to sit on the edge of his bed.

  Rob patted himself down. “I’ve got all my limbs, so pretty well.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and fingered the paper Luc had given him. “I’m heading off, but I wanted to say goodbye or whatever. My family is waiting for me.”

  “Families, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  Luc ran his fingers through his hair and affected an airy tone. “How long do you think you’re staying for, anyway?”

  The question Rob didn’t want to be asked, and certainly not after a day like Luc had had. He leaned against the door. “We fly on Solstice. I’ve got to get back for the show and everything, you know. They came out here for location stuff, but they want me at the studio.”

  Luc’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “More adventures, right?”

  Unable to stop himself and not wanting to, Rob crossed the room and cupped Luc’s face in his hands. He didn’t let Luc hide behind his hair, and he didn’t let himself hide behind babble. He didn’t want to be misunderstood. Luc’s breath hitched, though it might have been from the nearing sunset.

  “There’s no adventure like this,” Rob said, not blinking. He wanted to mark the truth into Luc’s soul.

  For a minute he thought Luc might have believed him.

  Chapter Twelve

  SO it turned out weaving was bloody difficult.

  Rob threw his latest effort across his hotel room, where the needles made a tinny sound as they hit the window. Grimacing guiltily, he rolled off the bed and went to retrieve his whatever-it-was. Mess number eight: blue edition.

  He nearly tripped over his shoes on the way back to his bed, which had become a nest of fabrics and thread and rejected efforts. Though Rob had started to pack his belongings in anticipation of his flight, since he knew he wouldn’t have time the following day, the whole room smelled vaguely unwashed thanks to his snowboarding gear and creative approach to holiday laundry, with the nest lending an extra eau de disaster area. If he had any spare time in his schedule, Rob might’ve spent some on embarrassment.

  He’d leave a generous tip. A tip was all he had capacity for between dealing with his family, the Curses Anonymous team, and attempting to cursebreak on purpose for the first time since he was a kid.

  It hadn’t been going well.

  A knock interrupted Rob before he could apply himself again to the weaver’s pattern Luc’s uncle had given them. Scrubbing his hair in frustration, he grabbed the nearest beanie and jammed it on as he crossed to the door and yanked it open.

  “Say hi, Rob,” Portia said, her camera pointed at him. “It’s been a while since we saw you last.”

  As much as he wanted to stick his fingers at the lens, Rob restrained himself and smiled blandly, the way his face had nearly set before he finally ran off to Les Menuires. He waved at the camera. Beside Portia, one of the crew controlled a boom mic with a flotation charm while tapping their phone with their free hand. Down the hall he could see the rest of the production team loitering politely, albeit with intent. Maybe they weren’t as bad as he thought.

  “It’s time, then?” Rob asked.

  Portia nodded. The camera didn’t move. “Where do you want to go?”

  Literally anywhere but here. Rob grabbed his coat and backpack from beside the door and double-checked he’d left the key in his coat pocket. Finding it, he let the door shut behind him.

  “Let’s go.” Walking quickly, he led the crew to the elevator. They could interview him at the L’Arbre terrace and get some B-roll, or whatever they called it, at the same time.

  Halfway down the hall, Rob realized he’d forgotten his shoes.

  “Bollocks, be right back!”

  They would definitely use that in his segment.

  MUSIC and laughter surrounded their quiet island at the rear of L’Arbre’s terrace, which the production crew had isolated with a few deft spells. Rob’s ears felt stuffed as a result, and he kept wanting to shake his head like a dog getting out of a swimming pool. On the other side of the table, Portia’s camera stared unblinkingly at him with its single red eye, recording every one of his tics as they waited for his answer to their opening salvo.

  Tell us about cursebreaking. How does it feel?

  Rob went to rub his face but remembered at the last moment how much makeup he wore. He course-corrected toward his beanie, stopped again on remembering the hair battle, and finally twisted his hands together on his lap. He was floundering after one question, and they wanted to do a whole episode? He would have to fake his own death or something.

  Taking a measured breath, Rob attempted to corral his thoughts. He looked at Portia rather than the camera, the way they’d coached him.

  “The family talks about keys and locks,” he finally said. In the corner of his eye, the mic moved slightly, and he tensed his neck not to look. “Puzzles, you know? They’re all huge puzzle fans. It’s like the Bletchley Circle with”—hunting knives, swords, intimacy issues—“magic.”

  Portia circled her hand in a signal to keep talking.

  “So it’s… like that.” And he’d started so well.

 
; “Tell us about Ava Gloss. How did you break her curse? Her puzzle?”

  “Breaking the Rapunzel was a family effort, with research from my cousins contributing to the final break.” Rob tried to look conspiratorial, like he was telling a secret. “My part, if I’m honest, was mostly luck.” Before he could manipulate the conversation elsewhere, the light on Portia’s camera went out.

  “This isn’t working.”

  Rob took a sip from his water glass, wishing it were beer. “It’s true, though.”

  Portia inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Sure, but it’s not interesting. Aren’t you, like, passionate about this stuff? Give me something to work with here.”

  “Passionate” sent Rob’s brain to Luc’s bed and lingered there. If Portia had been filming his expression, it would’ve been in soft-focus and inappropriate to air before the watershed. He pushed the memory of Luc’s smile and skin and taste from his mind. Attempted to, anyway. He took another sip of water.

  “What were you thinking about just then?” Portia asked.

  Glancing at the camera light—still off—Rob let himself smile. “Secrets.” Before Portia could lose her temper, Rob reached under the table for his backpack. “But I might have something for you, if you want to hear?”

  The light turned red, and the crew shuffled closer as Rob withdrew the battered biscuit tin from his backpack. He’d packed it that morning, not wanting to risk forgetting it in the inevitable last-minute panic, and brought it along in an impulsive moment. As much as his mother thought weaving might turn the attention of Curses Anonymous away from Rob’s lie of omission, Rob wasn’t convinced. But weaving was all he had.

  He set the box on the bench and paused until Portia signaled for him to lift the lid. As he did, the mic screeched with feedback, and everyone winced. Rob didn’t realize microphones even did that anymore, with charms to stabilize them. Evidently neither did the sound guy. He frowned and adjusted various things.

  Portia shifted her camera. “Can you guys feel that?” she asked, addressing the rest of the crew. Some of them nodded. She looked at Rob. “What is it?”