In which Mary forgets.
The first thing she forgot was the colour of a meadow on a midsummer day.
The second was the sound of a door sliding open, and a voice that still hadn’t lost the shake of anger.
“Excuse us,” said the voice. “But do you mind if we sit here?”
“You see,” the voice explained. “We had seats already. Perfectly nice seats, in fact—but then we were disturbed. Did you know this place accepts mentally deficient toe-rags?”
“Me either,” said the voice. It was a bit steadier now. “Well, you seem nice, at any rate—what’s your name?”
The voice had a name, too. But Mary couldn’t forget what it was.
The next thing she forgot was her own hands, glowing with the light of a thousand suns. She forgot the letter that came on her birthday and the man who came with it, tall and silver and kind when he told her she was magic. She forgot the feeling of a wand in her hand, the control, the certainty it gave her, something inside her slotting into place without ever having realised it was missing at all.
Ah, yes, she forgot thinking, when the man took out his own and conjured her mother a rose. Now everything is finally right.
She forgot how it felt when she heard that Word for the very first time and she realised she’d been so very wrong.
Mary forgot that the voice belonged to a girl. A girl with long, soft, pressed-copper hair, hair that smelled like vanilla and apples and sunshine.
She forgot how she sounded when she laughed.
“Sunshine isn’t a smell, Mary—but thank you all the same.”
Mary disagreed. Sunshine was her favourite smell.
