Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nestled within the oldest seam of New York City, just beyond the bustling avenues and high-rise buildings, lay a secret hamlet known only to those with a taste for the arcane. Here, magic hummed in the air, and shops brimming with ancient tomes, enchanted artefacts, and shimmering potions lined the crooked streets, stacked precariously beneath flickering lanterns and slanted signs.

Jack and Lucy emerged from the oak-panelled doors of Grimwald & Bael's Rare Tomes and Trinkets, their arms weighed down with books bound in strange leathers and inked with fading golden runes.

They were hit by a wall of sound and colour as they stepped out into the winding, cobblestone streets. A few paces ahead, a well-dressed storefront displayed cauldrons of varying sizes, while a cluster of mischievous faeries darted in and out of sight between lampposts velveted with lichen, drawn like moths to the pale blue flames flickering within. The woven scents of baked chestnuts and petalled sugar, and the dreamy resonance of loot strings, drifted on the night air, redolent of centuries gone by. Any rogue outsider could be mistaken for thinking they’d stumbled onto an active film set.

‘I can’t understand it, I simply can’t,’ Jack said, shifting his stack of reading material to one arm as he reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes. He’d chosen to wear it thawed today, partly to avoid being recognised, but also because his companion’s close proximity would’ve necessitated touching it up every five seconds, and frankly, he hadn’t the patience for that.

As wonted, he was clad in his favourite pinstriped suit, though the dress shirt beneath was Delft blue rather than frost-white, and he’d exchanged the icicle bolo for a proper silk tie, secured with a monogrammed tie pin that glinted ostentatiously as he walked.

‘Talk about bad takes,’ he went on, incredulous. ‘I mean truly. I'm almost inclined to accuse you of contrarianism.’

Trotting along at his shoulder, and similarly encumbered with a wide-ranging assortment of magical literature, Lucy offered him an apologetic smile. The hourglass heels of her Oxford shoes — lace-trimmed and daintily curled at the toe — clicked a merry staccato against the cobblestones. It put Jack in mind of a dressage pony: Precise, elegant, and perfectly poised, as if aware of the attention her every step commanded. 

'That’s just my opinion, Jack,' she said, with an affable sort of ease. 'I'm not saying you have to agree with it.'

'I don't.'

'Okay.'

'At all.'

'That's fine.'

'I mean, not even an iota-- a-a scintilla of accord.'

'Mm-hm, I hear you!’

As they turned the corner, a shop window of boisterously-coloured clocks caught their eye, ticking backwards and programmed to chime every twenty-five minutes. Jack flinched as a brass basilisk emerged suddenly from the one closest to him, its forked tongue snapping out like a party streamer.

'Aidan just seems so much more... I don't know. Your type, though,' he continued, giving the automaton a wide berth.

'How do you know what my type is?'

'What I imagine your type to be, then, given your overall track-record. I’m flawed you think he was the better choice for Carrie. I mean the man crafted furniture, for Heaven’s sake, Luce. Furniture. And he actually treated her the way a lady ought to be treated. Big was-- well, Big. He was a prick.’

Her unfailing patience notwithstanding, Lucy was fast regretting having introduced this topic of discussion. Somehow she'd underestimated just how familiar her frosty friend was with the material at hand. A rare moment of folly, for someone as sharp-minded as her. That a man who confessed to having read Judith Krantz's Scruples no fewer than twelve times since its publication should hold such obdurate views on a series that exulted the high fashion, sensual mores and romantic intrigue of vibrant '90s Manhattan was entirely foreseeable, now that she really thought about it. 

'Aidan was too good,’ she countered, for just about the hundredth time, employing a tone of gentle forbearance usually reserved for wayward patients. 'Endearing, sure, but he didn’t have that... that spark Carrie needed. You know? That charisma.’

‘Too good?! You -- Lucinda the Light, White Witch of the West Side -- are calling someone “too good”?’

‘In this instance, yeah! I am. He just wasn’t Carrie's type. At least, not to the extent that Big was. ...And I'm more of a Grey Witch, actually, given my profession. Researching dark spells entails careful reiteration of their more basic components, after all. Although my innate magic is white-leaning, I suppose.’ 

'Off-white then, let's say. Maybe a nice cornforth.'

'No idea what shade that is, but okay.'

'--And why go out with the guy in the first place, if that was the case?'

'I don't know. Because she was seeking stability, maybe?' Lucy posited, with a loose shrug of her shoulders. 'His emotional availability made him grounding. But it also made him kind of boring, as things progressed.'

The characteristic buoyancy of her stride was causing her spectacles to slip, little by little, down her nose, making it increasingly difficult to see where she was going. As the two of them emerged into the main square, which was aglow with floating lanterns and teeming with early-evening wanderers, Jack had to tug her firmly against his side to stop her from marching headfirst into a lamppost. For the second time that night.

Maybe not so elegant after all.

'Aidan could’ve given her everything she needed without all the drama, though,’ he returned, letting her go only once the path ahead was clear of obstacles. ‘I mean Big was-was selfish, he was unreliable, he was philandering, he was—'

'Deeply flawed, yes, but that was exactly what made him so interesting! He was a challenge. Carrie was always drawn to him, even when she was with other people. Let’s be real, Jack, no one compared to him in her eyes. Even Aidan, no matter how perfect he was on paper. Which is why the two of them didn't work out, long-term.'

‘Well, you’ve got me there, I suppose... I’ll be benevolent and choose to overlook the second movie, in this instance; seeing as it made me regret having eyes. And ears. And long-term memory.’

Lucy wrinkled her nose in open distaste. 'Honest to Gowdie. I wish I could erase it from my mind.'

‘With a strong enough charm you could do precisely that. Though it’d mean risking permanent amnesia, of course.’

‘I think I'll take my chances.’

A troupe of mummers was holding court beside the food market, their patchwork costumes a riot of velvet, bells, and enchanted sequins that shimmered like fish scales under the lantern light. One of them — a bard/mage-type figure with ribbons in his hair — summoned bursts of golden light with each jingle of his tambourine; another mimed climbing an invisible staircase, disappearing briefly behind a fog of conjured rose petals. A small crowd had gathered, enthralled by the strange, wordless pantomime that teetered somewhere between comedy and surrealism.

One performer in particular captured their attention. A polypode, with a handsome, lavender-painted face and the veiled musculature of a contortionist. Balanced on three patchwork legs while his other four limbs danced with dexterity, he juggled an assortment of magical objects: A flaming top that changed colours as it spun, a sphere of water that reflected the small crowd like a fisheye lens, a chain of tiny, fluted bones that tinkled like wind chimes, and, most strikingly of all, an ivory-white flower with translucent petals that shimmered softly as though lit from within.

The mummer’s variegated eyes locked onto Lucy with a twinkle of recognition, and in a single, fluid motion, he plucked the glowing blossom from his rotation and leaned forward, presenting it to her with a dramatic flourish.

‘Flower for the beautiful lady?’ he simpered, his voice as cloying and saccharine as the cobweb candy-floss being spun lazily at the neighbouring stall. ‘The elusive spiritbloom. Glows brightest in the presence of twin flames, healing soulmates, kindred spirits, et-cetera. A valuable addition to any witch’s larder, without a doubt; and a vital ingredient in any standardised love potion. Not that you need succour in that department, dear doctor.' His grin was a silver sickle, stretching his face just the slightest bit too wide.

Lucy took a step back, visibly unnerved. 

‘Oh. Gosh. Thank you, Mr… uhm...?

'Vanpoker, at your service, o’my lovely. Mr. Vanpoker.’ The burly arm proffering the flower flexed to the beat of the first performer’s tambourine. ‘Though you can call me Vanpo.’ 

Jack couldn't help but roll his eyes. “Vanpo” (stupid name) was just the latest in a steadily lengthening procession of men that evening to be drawn, moth-like, to the luminous flame that was Lucinda Miller. And frankly, he was getting tired of it.

First there’d been the spotty-faced shop clerk who’d all but tripped over his own feet trying to offer her a discount and a dinner date, both of which she’d declined with a gentle, “Honey, I’m old enough to be your mother”. Then came the fold of half-pickled satyrs loitering on the steps of Mordacre’s Alehouse, who’d let fly with a string of predictably lewd observations as she passed.

She’d waved it off, as was her character. Told Jack, with a practiced roll of her eyes, “They’re clearly out of their heads. Frankly, I’m more concerned about the condition of their livers!” before flicking her wand and turning the remaining contents of their tankards to water. And not the sparkling kind.

Still, Jack had fixed them with a frost-edged stare so severe it might have chilled the pipes beneath the cobblestones, privately mourning the death of an era in which men behaved like civilised members of society around the opposite gender. Or at the very least, kept their crude remarks to themselves.

He couldn’t say he was entirely surprised by all the glad-eyeing, of course, striking as his friend no doubt was. Particularly in her current attire, which exuded both effortless sophistication and otherworldly charm. Magenta silk hugged her delicate curves from chin to ankle, deepening to shades of violet and indigo as she passed beneath the gas lamps.

The dress was as much garment as star-flung tapestry -- celestial bodies wheeling across it in long, gleaming arcs, their orbits mapped out in the finest filigree. Beneath her ribs a comet blazed, its tail unfurling towards her hip in a stream of golden fire. Tiny moons clung to their mother worlds, some sickle-thin, others round and full, all rendered with such exquisite care one might swear they waxed and waned with every shift of the light. 

Jack, as the talented modiste behind said embellishments, down to the last orbiting speck, (a thirty-sixth birthday gift, commissioned by Lucy herself) couldn't help but swell with pride each time he overheard someone compliment their artistry. 

A stray bolt of lighting struck the air mere inches from Lucy’s hair, which caught the flare and shimmered copper-bright. Primped and polished to the burnished lustre of a new penny, her hairstyle evoked the elegance of early-to-mid 20th century glamour: Soft curls framing her jaw, bouncing gently against her shoulders as she turned her head.

Yes. Very striking indeed, Jack thought idly, his gaze tracking the gracile sweep of her silhouette as it dipped in and out of relief, each slow transfer of weight from one dainty heel to the other limning her features anew. But that's no excuse for poor etiquette. Certainly not prolonged gawking. At least he, as her companion for the evening, knew how to comport himself. Though of course, his regard for her extended no further than that of a close (if doting, he would admit) friend.

Without conscious thought, he extended his arm and drew her subtly closer by the shoulder, shielding her from stray sparks with a fluid, casual motion. His palm hovered just above her upper arm before resting there; light, but sure. 

‘Thank you, Mr. Vanpoker. That’s very kind of you,' Lucy said politely, spots of colour blooming like roses under the freckles of her high cheekbones. ‘But— you see, my arms…’ 

Were full to brimming, at present. Not just with books (though they made up the bulk of the load), but also with potions ingredients, new parchment and quills, scrying numen for Melusine, a pair of antimicrobial gloves, a new ballistics pendulum, a bag of peppermint mice and candied violets, and a wedge of broomstick rosin.

Jack, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly, stepped forward with a disingenuous smile. 

‘I’d be more than happy to accept it on the doctor's behalf,’ he purred, smooth as honey. ‘If, of course, she’s content with that?’

The mummer's sickle-grin inverted at this intrusion, but he relinquished his offering all the same — plunging into a theatrical bow in the process. With deliberate care, Jack tucked the blossom into the ribbon of Lucy’s witch’s hat, adjusting the angle just so; a subtle, almost proprietorial touch. While he was there, he gently nudged her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, ensuring she wouldn’t stumble into any more lampposts.

‘There,’ he said, tapping the tip of her nose fondly once he was finished. ‘Parfaite, mademoiselle. Nothing says "inconspicuous" like luminous shrubbery, hmm?’

Lucy tilted her head up, favouring him with a smile like Spring sunshine.

'Why, you're positively glowing, my o’my lovely. In fact... Goddess of the Springs. I dare say--' 

'Thaaat's great, Vanpoo,' Jack interrupted silkily, pushing a hand in Vanpo's painted face as the latter attempted to swerve around him to Lucy's opposite side. ‘Thanks so much.’

‘Uh, it's Vanpo.'

‘Whatever.’

As they moved on, the rosiness in Lucy's cheeks persisted, and Jack couldn’t shake the strange, unfamiliar pang that gnawed at his insides at the sight of it. 

She hadn’t… liked the mummer, had she?

The question struck him with equal parts distaste and curiosity.

Had he been out of line, stepping in like that? He’d only meant to spare her the same pathetic fawning she’d been forced to endure since the evening’s start — or so he’d told himself, at the time. But now, in hindsight, he wasn’t entirely sure what had come over him. It wasn’t something he’d felt compelled to do before.

Heavens, he hoped she didn’t think poorly of him for it. Perhaps next time he ought to keep his mouth shut. Let her handle things herself. She was, after all, trained in the art of jujitsu; she was more than capable of fending off unwanted advances without his help.

Still… Jack knew her well enough by now to understand that, had she wanted to stay and chat, she would have. Indeed, had she wanted to give out her number, she’d have done so without blinking. Melusine had once mentioned, with some amusement, that Lucy had been the instigator in all her past relationships. A fact Jack couldn’t help but respect.

And surely she had better taste than ol’ Vanpoo? What was there even to like about the guy? Sure, he was handsome. And young. And built like a Greco-Roman statue. And yes, those multiple limbs probably had their uses in certain, ahem, specific contexts--

Jack frowned, deciding not to pursue that line of thinking any further. He gave his head a subtle shake, as if physically dislodging the thought, and straightened his coat with unnecessary precision. 

Some questions, he decided, were best left unanswered.

Particularly ones that left him feeling oddly warm and uncomfortable…

Their stroll through the Withy continued, the whimsical sights and sounds providing an enchanting backdrop to their playful banter. Above them, a gibbous moon was rising, casting a silvery wash across the crooked, ivy-cloaked buildings, whose warped chimneys reached like fingers into the night sky. 

Being the day before Valentine’s Day, the entire hamlet had taken on a festive, romantic air. Red velvet ribbons and garlands of blush-pink roses hung from gas lamps and balconies, swaying gently in the breeze. Shopfronts glowed warmly with heart-shaped lanterns, while tiny cherubs fluttered overhead, occasionally firing glittery arrows at unsuspecting passers-by, who would then burst into giggles or blushes before the spell wore off. Even the cobblestones beneath their feet had been charmed to shimmer faintly in shades of rose-gold and lavender, like the inside of a seashell.

The deepening twilight drew cats of every colour from the shadows; slinking between stoops, under market stalls, prowling the gutters in search of tidbits. Jack sidestepped them with a look of faint distaste, muttering something under his breath about how he could never have one as a familiar. His sister’s “uniquely endearing old feather-duster” notwithstanding, he’d never been too fond of the creatures. When pressed for a reason, he explained, with haughty conviction, that it was the way they strutted about with their tails in the air, flaunting everything underneath for all the world to see.

Lucy had to physically bite her tongue to keep from mentioning a certain incident in the Park, twelve years prior.

Further along, a gaggle of ghost-children in Regency-era skeleton suits capered through the mist, their translucent forms flickering like lanterns caught in a breeze, voices ringing out with an eerie, bell-like clarity. They were laughing uproariously as they tossed something back and forth between them, and it wasn’t until Jack and Lucy drew nearer that they realised, with a squeak of concern from the latter, that it was a fifth ghost’s severed head, still grinning as it flew through the air. The rest of the child’s body sat politely on the steps of the nearby school, legs swinging idly, hands folded in its lap.

As Jack and Lucy passed, the giggling group let loose one final toss, sending the head sailing straight through Jack’s torso.

He gasped, shuddering violently.

‘Goddess above!’

‘What?’ Lucy asked, wide-eyed.

‘It was like being skewered with— well, with an icicle,’ he mused, rubbing his ribs as if to check for damage. ‘Not the most pleasant experience, as I'm sure my dear sister can attest to. ...Little rapscallions.’

The children cackled, the headless one blowing a raspberry, and darted around the corner like a shoal of fish; silvery forms catching the light in a broad sweep.

He and Lucy ducked into another shop at one point, its name spelled out in worn, hand-painted lettering that shimmered feebly under the lamplight: Gallowmere’s Cabinet of Curiosities. It was the kind of place that smelled as old as it looked: A combination of dust, mildew and the faint, carbonic twang of enchantments long expired, with shelves buckling under the weight of mysterious relics and peculiar oddments from centuries' past.

Lulled into a false sense of security by the shop’s oppressive warmth and twee furnishings, Jack immediately landed himself in hot water by prising open a beautiful, silver-plated music box that turned out to contain the disembodied voice of a siren, its song barely a whisper now, but still potent enough to coax him into a slack-jawed trance. With sudden, startling clarity, he felt compelled to leap out of the nearest window and land in a dramatic roll, or perhaps wrestle a griffin into submission, just to assert his masculinity. Fortunately, before he could act on any of these heroic delusions, Lucy’s gentle tones cut through the haze, accompanied by a squawk of laughter from the harpy-like shop clerk. Jack blinked, dazed, and snapped the lid shut with a sheepish mutter, resolving not to handle any more of the merchandise for the remainder of their visit. 

Neither woman, notably, had been affected.

(‘At least now I know what to get Mel for her birthday,’ Lucy teased sweetly, wiping something from his chin that Jack had a horrible feeling might be drool. ’She’ll be guaranteed to win any future arguments against you with that little number in her arsenal! A bespoke Frost Tongue-Tier, how nifty.’)

Shaking off the embarrassment, Jack drifted towards a display of self-turning hourglasses and a set of cards that whispered unpleasant omens under their breath, while Lucy all but pressed her freckly nose to a locked glass cabinet near the back of the shop. Inside, resting on a velvet cushion the colour of milkweed, was an impossibly delicate eighteenth-century microscope slide. The sample was of a rare magical virus (long deceased, but perfectly preserved), infamous for causing temporary time disjunctions in patients, leaving them momentarily unstuck from the present.

Jack wandered over eventually, only half understanding his friend’s reverence. He knew she collected such things now — fragments of scientific history, frozen in plexiglass — an oddly fitting evolution from her snow globe obsession. There was something about that permanence, that delicate containment, that clearly spoke to her, for she also had a number of antique (and rather creepy, in Jack's opinion) formalin specimens in her possession. Apparently, she’d had to prevent Melusine from dicing the latter up for use in potions/stews on multiple occasions.

She lingered over the slide for what felt like ages, deliberating aloud. The price tag was steep, and though Jack encouraged her to buy it ('For Heaven’s sake, Miller, you look like you’re trying to gnaw your way into that display'), Lucy ultimately shook her head. 

‘I can’t justify it, Jack,’ she murmured, reluctant but resolute. ‘Not when I have three grant applications pending. The therapies I'm already in the process of developing are spendy in and of themselves. Materials, space, laboratory staff, medical leads, legal staff, protocol writers, data scientists, staticians… testing for safety and efficacy. The financial outlay is extensive.'

As they stepped out into the night air once more, Jack made a show of patting his coat pockets, telling her, with feigned frustration, that he must have left his wallet back in the shop.

Lucy barely had time to open her mouth, halfway into asking when and where he’d last seen it, before he pirouetted on the spot and minced off towards the shopfront, one hand raised in a regal gesture that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Renaissance tapestry. She watched him go, bemused.

When he returned several minutes later, looking smug and suspiciously empty-handed, Lucy didn’t press him.

Instead, she glanced sideways and said, almost absently, ‘Do you think I should have just bitten the bullet, Jack? I keep thinking about it.’

'I'm not sure why anyone would want a mirror that allows them to see what they'd look like as an OAP, personally. But if it brings you joy, who am I to judge?'

'It does not bring me joy. I don't need to be reminded every day that I'm eventually going to have bingo-wings that might actually be capable of flight. I was talking about microscope slide.'

Jack’s answering chuckle, light and airy, came perhaps a shade too quickly, but for once Lucy seemed too preoccupied to notice.

‘Yes, of course. Your enduring fondness for laminated sneezes,' he mused, in that arch tone he often adopted when indulging her peculiarities. ‘Charming... though it was, Miller -- and I mean that sincerely -- best err on the side of caution, in my opinion. You’d only've spent the next few months pinching pennies and resenting it.’

‘Mm,’ she mused, still looking thoughtful.

He slipped a casual hand into his coat pocket, his knuckles brushing something small and cool nestled against the inner lining. As they resumed walking — his other hand coming to rest lightly at the small of Lucy’s back, steering her gently forward — his mouth curved into a quiet, private smile. Had she indeed "bitten the bullet" and ventured back to the store she'd have found herself sorely disappointed. The slide, he knew, was no longer sitting on its little velvet cushion.

After a couple of hours they came upon a small lot tucked between two looming dosshouses, where further street lamps bathed everything in a jewel-blue glow.

All around, the magical “carpark” was filled with an assortment of whimsical vehicles. Shimmering broomsticks hovered a few inches off the ground, winged bicycles flapped quietly in place, and even a peculiar teacup-shaped contraption puttered and spun lazily in its lot, awaiting an owner who, from the size of it (or lack thereof), could reach no higher than the tops of Jack’s knees.

An elegant phaeton carriage stood hitched to a pair of towering silver hares, their long ears twitching attentively as they drank from pails of some dark, ichorous liquid that smelled suspiciously of brandy. Not far from them, a sleek obsidian sleigh hovered proudly, balanced on skeins of fern-green vapour, and across the way, a snail the size of a Shetland pony appeared to be sleeping, its riding saddle adorned with parasols and richly-woven Persian rugs — several weathered old map holders strapped securely to its flank. Its shell had been painted meticulously to resemble the night sky, Lucy noticed. Complete with constellations that flickered faintly as it shifted.

Lucy paused to take it all in, a crooked smile tugging at her lips.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘for all our many quirks, we magical folk do know how to travel in style.’

‘Oh yes. None more so than you.’

Indeed, among the ragtag collection was Lucy’s broomstick. A sleek, cherry-wood model, polished to a soft gleam and humming with latent energy. Bundles of dried lilacs and gypsophila nestled amongst its bristles, interspersed with a colourful nest of shew-stones, painted feathers and crystal beads.

‘Pretty, isn’t she?’ Lucy preened, striding over to the article and patting its handle affectionately. She tossed her yield into the small, enchanted satchel affixed to the back, which swallowed the massive tomes as if they weighed nothing. Jack did the same, taking care not to crease or otherwise damage anything. He’d bought little for himself this eve, electing instead to keep his arms free to help Lucy carry her haul. He’d have helped her buy it too, and indeed had offered several times, but she wasn't having any of it. Which is why he'd surreptitiously slid his Legendary Figure badge across the counter when she wasn’t looking, so that she might at the very least benefit from his store discount.

‘I’ve enjoyed this little interim, Dr. Miller,’ he said, standing back with his hands on his hips.

‘Ditto! Thanks for keeping me company. I know you're a busy bee, so it means a lot.'

‘Never too busy for an old amiga. And it was nice to have a reprieve from Snow Business, t'tell you the truth. We're in Full Steam Ahead Mode, currently, so things have been… intense, to say the least. But I suppose I'd best be “slingin' my 'ook", as Ms Melville would say.'

‘Boo.' Lucy gave him a thumbs down.

‘Hm, yes, how bereft you'll be without my incomparable charm.’A roughish tilt touched Jack’s mouth, deepening the dimple in his left cheek. ‘However, the Big Apple—’ he made an expansive gesture at the city environs, ‘—insatiable old harridan that she is, demands moi attención. She's overdue a little TLC this eve, so the aim, as things stand, is to have her done and dusted by midnight, at the very latest. Try to overturn a personal best.’

‘Sure thing, bud. Completely understand,’ Lucy replied with cheerful equanimity — then let out a loud, theatrical cough that bore an uncanny resemblance to the word “workaholic.”

‘Whew. Goodness. Sorry about that!’ she added breezily, patting her chest. ‘Must’ve picked something up at the hospital.'

‘Pot-kettle disease, by any chance?’

'Tsk. How dare you.' She winked at him, dainty fingers hovering an inch or two shy of her breastbone in a show of mock-affront. The lace of her gloves was so sheer it resembled cobweb, Jack mused absently. A gossamer wisp that caught the lamplight just enough to shimmer. Yet, it still served its purpose — veiling the intricate network of faint, silver-white scars that coiled like smoke up the backs of her hands.

Lucy rarely spoke of them. He doubted most people even knew they existed. The gloves, ever-present, were both fashion statement and shield; a barrier against the awkward questions and sympathetic winces she had no patience for. They allowed her to move through the world without explanation. Without having to relive the story of how they came to be.

Smirking in return, Jack extended his own hand to help her onto the broom, which she grasped gratefully, hoisting herself up with ease. Just as the moment seemed to draw to a close and they made to part ways, however, Lucy paused, an idea forming in her head (always dangerous).

‘Jack,' she began, tightening her grip on him enough that, instead of detaching from her as he’d intended, Jack stumbled forward slightly. Her disparate strength to size ratio always caught him somewhat off-guard, when it presented itself. She’d once claimed, with no small degree of confidence, that she could pick him up bridal-style if the situation ever called for it. While they’d yet to test that particular theory, Jack had little doubt she was telling the truth.

‘Y— uh, yes?’

‘I don’t suppose you fancy a ride before you go, do you?’

‘I beg your pardon?'

'On Twiggy.'

'Who-y?'

'Twiggy.' Lucy nodded to the broom. 'That’s what I named her. After Lesley Hornby, the model.’

‘Ah yes. Of course,’ Jack said, straightening his tie primly. ‘That-that makes sense.’

'Have you even been on a broom before?'

His reply came out as a breathy scoff: ‘Many times.'

Lucy raised manicured brows at him, too perceptive for her own good. 'Have you really?'

'Oh like I’m gonna lie?'

'Pathologically, yes.'

'Why, madame. I’m stung!’

They exchanged mutually obstinate looks, each unwilling to be the first to back down. Finally, Jack’s gaze lifted skyward, and he let out an exasperated sigh.

'Alright, fine. Little Miss Human Polygraph Test. …No. I haven’t been on a broom before.'

'Seriously? Never?’ Lucy blinked at him with those big, doe-like eyes of hers, genuinely surprised. ‘Even when you were cozying it up with Cheri?’

Cheri being the Grand Mistress of the Dark Arts. Someone with whom Lucy, as both a fellow witch, and Senior Consultant of the Dark Magical Injuries Department at Crystal Springs General Hospital, convened on a semi-regular basis.

‘I wouldn’t say we “cozied it up”, per se,’ Jack answered, a little uncomfortably. ‘It wasn’t an extended affair, after all. I simply… ahem…'

'Took her to dinner, made use of her "portal", and then conveniently forgot to call her for several thousand years?'

Lucy smiled as she watched the colour drain from his face.

'And there you were pontificating about "how ladies ought to be treated",' she chastised him, jokingly. 'Tut-tut.'

'I was young.'

'Mm, heard that one before.'

'--Entirely self-absorbed. I'm a different man now.'

'Of course.'

'You and she’ve been speaking, then, I take it?' Jack deduced. 'Cheri.’

'Usually about new case studies in arcane spell-casting or amendments to current curse legislation, all very Bechtel Test-abiding. But you do crop up now and then.'

'Two exceedingly gifted and high-powered women with extensive knowledge of the Dark Arts conspiring behind my back. I'm sure that won't come back to bite me in the rear.'

Another laugh bubbled from Lucy, warm and musical. 'Only if you don't behave yourself.'

'Never really been my forté.'

'Mm, good point. Best sleep with one eye open then, eh?’ She flashed her brows at him. ‘But we’re getting off-topic. Twiggy’s in need of a co-pilot, and it would appear that you, my good sir, are overdue your first flight. Hop on.'

'Boy, you know I’d love to, Luce. Really. In-in-in fact there’s nothing I’d rather do more. But— oh! My. Would y’look at the time…?' Jack made a show of indicating his wristwatch, two of the seven hands of which pointed to the Roman numeral “VIII”, while the rest ticked and whirred to the tune of some complex meteorological paradigm. 'I’ve one of those deeply invasive, “So You’re Middle-Aged now”, men’s health examinations to get to. Tss. What a pity. Ta-ta now, tootle-loo—'

'Oh come on, really?'

'Wretched timing, I know, but one mustn't let these things fall by the wayside. I'm sure you understand, as a, uh, medical practitioner.'

'You won't even consider it?' Lucy wheedled, her voice slipping into that familiar, sportive lilt she set aside for moments of gentle persuasion. Typically when coaxing him into doing something strenuous, undignified, or both. 'You never know, you might just have fun.’

Jack pivoted to face her again, skepticism painted across his features. ‘Fun.'

‘Or something there-adjacent. Enjoyment. Amusement. Light-hearted pleasure. All of the above.’

'You and me. On,' he wiggled his fingers in the general direction of the broom, 'that.'

‘Her, Jack, show some respect. Women don't like to feel objectified.'

Jack hesitated, eyeing the sleek handle as if it might bite him. Thrill-seeking though he was (or had been, in his younger years), the idea of soaring above the city on something so… negligible made his heart stutter, but Lucy’s eyes shone with such earnest enthusiasm it was difficult to refuse. 

'Come o-on,’ she urged again, clicking her heels together like an overexcited showgirl. 'Where’s that gung-ho kid who was so desperate to learn how to fly he jumped off the roof of his three story childhood home, huh?'

'I knew I shouldn’t’ve told you about that.'

‘But you did, and here we are.'

'You’re not gonna let up about this until I do it, are you?'

‘Statistically unlikely.’

‘You’ll just keep on and on—'

'And on and on. And on and on and on, ad nauseam. You’re only saving yourself time by saying yes now and cutting out the back and forth. But hey. Look. I'm not one for forcing people beyond their comfort zones. You just take a moment to think it over, okay? No pressure.'

'No pressure? From you? Wonders never cease.'

'None. Nada. Absolutely zilch. '

A pause ensued.

...One Lucy managed to endure for a record time of five seconds before checking the nacre ring watch on her index finger and muttering, 'Takeyourtimehurryup.'

'Lucy.'

'What? I'm excited!'

Jack rubbed the space between his eyes and sighed, long and resigned. There was only ever going to be one outcome here -- they both knew it. When, in all honesty, had he ever managed to refuse her anything she wanted? He might as well surrender with dignity (while he still had it) and embrace the inevitable.

‘H’one quick spin couldn’t kill me, I suppose,' he heard himself capitulating.

‘That’s the spirit!’

In fact, it could kill him. Badly. Permanently, even, but Jack had more or less accepted his fate at this point. What were a few shattered bones in the interest of making her happy, after all? He might even end up breaking his nose at precisely the right angle to realign his septum, wouldn’t that be something?

The only remaining hindrance, of course, was the “precious cargo” in his breast pocket; but as long as they were careful, and didn’t go too fast…

‘Where d’you want me?’ he asked, in a tone of weary defeat. 'Front? Back?'

‘Caboose, I think, seeing as you’re heavi— aller,’ Lucy amended quickly, when he narrowed his eyes at her. 'Taller, I said taller.'

‘I should think so too. I work hard at keeping myself this svelte, you know. Strict dietary regimen. Iron-clad self-discipline. Scrupulous adherence to Cosmo’s “Ten Days to a Slimmer You”. And more jazz-ice-cise classes than you can shake an icicle at.’

Visions of him draped, leonine, across his favourite chais lounge — luxuriating over Château Lafite-Rothschild, baked camembert with honey and truffle oil, and Swiss chocolate-dipped strawberries — danced through Lucy’s head, and it took real effort not to laugh. She’d walked in on that exact scene more than once, while visiting him at his condo in Gstaad. Oftentimes he hadn’t even bothered to change out of his day robe/moccasins.

‘Iron-clad,’ she echoed, with a staid little nod. ‘Very admirable.'

With the air of a man being walked to the gallows, Jack swung a leg over and settled in behind her -- only to regret the decision almost immediately. 

‘What's wrong?’ Lucy asked, glancing back at him in concern as he let out a strained grunt. 'Is there a problem?'

‘Ah… that's one way of putting it,’ he replied, voice pitched a full octave higher than usual. He shifted his hips one way, then the other, trying in vain to find a position that didn’t evoke visions of medieval torture. 'Two problems, actually, if we’re being grammatically precise.’

Realisation dawned across Lucy’s features, and she made a noise that was part pity, part mirth, her lace-clad fingers rising to her lips as though to trap it there.

‘Oh, Ja-hack,’ she said, the second syllable catching on a giggle. ‘I'm so sorry, I probably should’ve warned you. These things aren’t exactly built with, um. External fixtures in mind.’

‘I’m becoming increasingly aware of that, yes,’ Jack winced, shifting again as if that might improve the situation. It made little difference. If anything, the broom seemed to grow more vindictive by the second, no doubt punishing him for his earlier comments.

‘Someone really needs to invent a more ergonomically considerate design, come to think of it,' Lucy mused, tapping her chin in thought. 'Something a little less... straddly.'

'Y'don't say.'

'--Perhaps a spell that distributes pressure evenly across the seat...? I'll give it some thought, maybe draw up a schematic or two. Do you think you'll manage for the time being? I don't want you to be miserable.’

‘As long as you're prepared to tell my parents you’re the reason I won't be giving them grandchildren, yes. I suppose I’ll soldier on.’

Lucy snorted at that, torn between laughing again and rolling her eyes. He truly was the biggest drama queen she knew; bar none.

Settling for a look of amused sympathy, she slipped her wand from inside her sleeve and gave the broom’s handle a couple of precise taps, murmuring the word, ‘Emollire.’ At once, a soft, sepia-toned glow bloomed at the wand’s tip and settled over the sleek handle like a fresh layer of polish. The spell rippled outward, spreading smoothly across the burnished wood and expanding to cover nearly two-thirds of its length.

Jack repositioned himself once more, letting out a quiet breath when the motion yielded slightly less pain.

‘And that was?’ he asked, one eyebrow arching quizzically.

‘A softening charm,’ Lucy answered brightly, twirling the wand once like a baton before sliding it back up her sleeve. ‘Far from a perfect solution, of course, but hopefully it'll take the edge off. Quite literally. Remind me to float the idea to the Association for Broomstick Flight Safety and Accreditation at some point.’

No sooner had one problem been addressed, however, than another made itself known:

Jack was clearly grappling with the delicate question of where to rest his hands. After several seconds of vacillating between her shoulders and her hips — arms hovering like a malfunctioning marionette — Lucy decided to take pity on him.

‘Anything else I can help you with there, bud? This is a safe space.’

‘I just, uh... wasn’t sure where would be the more appropriate… area of personage…’

‘My waist, maybe?’ she proposed, endeared by his choice of wording. Area of personage. Bless. 

‘Your wa— are you sure?’

‘If you want to stay on the broom, yes. Which is generally the aim.’

‘You won’t find it, ehm, indecorous?’ Jack asked solicitously, scooting back slightly in an attempt to put more distance between the two of them. ‘There isn’t exactly much room on this thing.’

‘No, you know what? You’re right. You're absolutely right, Jack, how silly of me; I’d forgotten I’d recently enrolled with the Carmelite Sisters. While we’re on the topic, actually, I’d be grateful if you could refer to me as “Mother Miller” from now on, kay? Or “Mother Superior”, whichever suits.’

‘Mothe— mmh.’ Jack adopted a look that said something to the effect of “that was funny but I’m going to pretend not to approve for the sake of my ego”. ‘Now there’s no need for that. I was merely—’

‘Being a gentleman, I guessed,’ Lucy anticipated him, with a look of fond exasperation. ‘And it’s sweet. Really it is. But not necessary. Now scooch thine pinstriped butt back here while I’m still young enough to see where I’m going, we're losing moonlight.’ 

At length, Jack acquiesced. But only insofar as shifting an inch or two closer, his fingers landing hesitantly on the dip beneath her ribs. Her waist felt narrow and taut between his touch, and warm. Very warm.

Rolling her eyes at how uncharacteristically priggish he was being about the whole thing (especially given what an outrageous flirt he was with just about everyone else), Lucy reached back to pull his arms fully around her, surprising him enough that he let out a little snort of indignation.

‘Why do you look so nervous all of a sudden?’ She nudged him kittenishly with her shoulder. 'What d'you think I’m going to do? Gobble you up whole, like a preying mantis? I’m not that scary, surely.’

‘Gobble me up, no, but you may well have jinxed me had you thought I was taking liberties.’

In my dreams, Lucy thought archly, and then immediately scolded herself for it. 

He's your friend, Miller. Friends don't think about friends like that. Get a grip.

‘Do go easy on your ol’ pal, won’t you?’ Jack went on, as she turned away to fiddle with the manifold dials and notches running the length of the broom’s handle. ‘Not that he isn't raffishly courageous and intrepid and what-have-you, but, to reiterate, this is his first time.’

‘I’ll be very gentle, I promise,’ Lucy said, aiming for reassurance as she removed her witch’s hat and, with a snap of her fingers, shrank it down to the size of a coin -- tucking the finished article into her satchel. The spiritbloom that had been nestled in its ribbon received the same treatment; though she took the added precaution of casting a protective charm around it to guard against bruising or breakage. 

In the hat's place she donned headwear that combined the archetypical aviator's cap with a 1930's lady's cloche.

Her spectacles were swapped for a pair of purple-lensed goggles, their multiple attachments and appendages reminiscent of the “steampunk” style Jack knew her to be a fan of. Tiny brass rivets gleamed at the hinges, and one lens slid out like a monocle on a track, magnifying and shifting with a click as it calibrated to altitude.

‘No surprises or crazy-kooky moves,' she vowed, with great sincerity. 'Cross my heart and hope to... well, not die, actually. That'd be counterproductive. Get a nasty headache, maybe.'

‘You won’t try any of your usual "Jeté Jayne" gymnastics?' Jack asked pointedly, making a little loop-de-loop motion with his index finger. 'Barrel rolls? Immelmans? Pas de chat?'

‘Nope. None. A-plus use of the lingo, though. Top marks.’

The name Jeté Jayne had stuck years ago, half-joking at first, when Melusine first saw her housemate practicing midair pirouettes over the south side of the Park. 

Both broomsticks and flying styles came in many forms, and reflected their practitioners’ intentions. Couriers, mounted on thickset, robust models, prioritised load-bearing and endurance. Their brooms were built for distance, not finesse. Racers, by contrast, favoured sleek, narrow designs and had honed their flying into a precise science of angles and airflow, every movement optimised for speed and razor-sharp turns. And then there were the artistic flyers. Those who choreographed their paths through the sky like calligraphy. Their brooms tended to be more elegant in conformation, often customised with flared tails, flexible shafts; subtle enchantments that responded to nuance of posture and weight distribution. Some even trailed coloured mist or light behind them. 

There were sub-styles within that category, too. The Russians with their sharp, dramatic lines. The Italians with their flourish and grandeur. Lucy favoured the French style, which was noted for its balletic undertones. It had come naturally to her, especially with her background.

She'd taken ballet classes from the ages of three to seventeen, eventually reaching the stage of dancing en pointe. When medical school overwhelmed her schedule, she'd hung up her slippers for good. Adopted martial arts, instead, as a less demanding avocation -- something she could indulge in if and when she had time. But that muscle memory showed in every movement she made on a broom.

The poised hover of an arabesque, one leg extended in elegant defiance of gravity; the lightning dart of a pas de chat, as if she leapt between clouds rather than through them. Her assemblé was so clean it looked choreographed, limbs snapping inward as she twisted into a barrel roll. She'd even mastered a broom-mounted pirouette, spinning in place while the tail of her cloak flared like a tutu caught in an updraft.

Now, she rummaged through the weathered satchel before drawing out her flying shoes, the cream-coloured leather (faux, of course) still soft where it hadn’t been scuffed dark by weather and time. Each toe was reinforced with a hard platform, not unlike that of a ballerina’s pointe, but retooled to lock into stirrups along the broom's shaft. The same applied to the springy shock absorbers curving into a heel down each calve, which were vaguely reminiscent of the long-fall Velocity Challenge Braces from Portal. The soles pulsed faintly with magic: Gravitational grip charms and toe-angle stabilisers, allowing for the exact kind of precision she demanded. 

They had been her last pair of real ballet slippers. She’d transfigured them years ago, back when she’d been a poor student and couldn’t afford proper flying shoes. One might assume she kept them out of sentimentality, but the truth was more practical: They still worked perfectly. And besides, there was something neatly poetic, she felt, in that evolution from stage to sky.

Lucy slid the shoes on with practiced ease, binding the ribbon-like straps around her ankles and calves, double-knotting each one with a flick of her fingers.

‘Do I have your word, Lucy?’ Jack pressed, apparently unmoved by her assurances. His tone was light, but there was an edge beneath it. A flicker of genuine nerves masked under the usual polish. 'That this isn't going to be my last hurrah, as it were?'

‘You have my word.’

‘Truly?’

‘Truly.’

‘Truly-truly?’

‘Truly-truly.’

‘Truly-truly-truly, because I consider myself far too young and handsome to deprived the world of my presence—’

‘Jack.’ She spun around again, taking his face in her hands. ‘Just. Trust me, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t I always take good care of you?’

Jack stared at her — all wide, blue eyes and squished cheeks — looking so uncharacteristically guileless all of a sudden that she had to resist the urge to kiss his silly, crooked nose. 

‘Yesch,’ he lisped softly, following a pause. ‘I schupposh you do.’

‘And you know I would never put you in a situation that could potentially lead to you being harmed?’

‘I… guesch not. Can you let go of my fasche, pleasche? It’sch schtarting to go numb.’

‘Then you've nothing to worry about, do you?’ She lowered her hands to his shoulders, smoothing out the rumples in his suit jacket with practised ease. ‘I am nothing if not an advocate for health and safety, after all. Which reminds me, put this on.’

‘Put what o— ?’

Suddenly she was forcing something solid and heavy over his head. Bewildered, Jack glanced into the left wing mirror, and glowered.

‘You, my freckly friend, are toeing a very narrow line.’

'And here I thought I’d crossed it altogether.’ Lucy’s eyes sparkled with mirth as she tightened the strap of the hot-pink bike helmet he was now wearing. A hot-pink bike helmet with the words “Princess” stamped across the front in large, glittery lettering.

‘Are you serious right now?’ he said, jabbing a finger at it.

‘I never joke about protective head gear, Jack. It's a serious state of affairs.'

'It's ridiculous, is what it is.’

‘I think the word you’re looking for is “vintage”, thank you very much,’ she corrected him primly, swatting his hand away as he went to take it off. ‘This baby earned me major street cred back in the summer of ’98. And, given that you’re technically my passenger princess right now, I’d say it’s fairly appropriate.'

She reached up to give his head a fortifying wiggle, making him go cross-eyed. 

‘Kay, it’s on nice and snug, so that’s fab. Need to keep that clever, scheming brain of yours safe, after all, mm? Now, in the event that we crash--'

'We're going to crash?'

'We're not going to crash,' Lucy told him staidly. 'This is a purely hypothetical scenari--'

'Then why in Heaven's name are we preparing for it?'

'It's just a precaution, Jack; as your flight instructor it's my duty to make you aware of the appropriate line of action, so would you please let me finish, for Hecate's sake? In the event that we crash, I want you to curl forwards in on yourself. The goal is to protect as many of your vital organs as possible; avoid internal rupturing and/or bleeding. As well as restrict the movement of the arms and legs, preventing them from flailing and causing further injury or becoming entangled during the impact. Got it? ...I don't suppose you'd be open to signing a waiver, would you?’ 

Jack’s eyes widened further in trepidation, a clear indication that the joke had flown over his head. 

‘I— kidding. I was kidding, sorry.’ Lucy scooped up his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Clearly I need to work on my timing. No legal releases required; you’ll be back on the ground, safe and sound, before you can say “litigious”. H’okey dokey, hold on tight now!’

Without her even having to issue a command, the broomstick began to glow, and Jack, quickly forgetting about the helmet and the discomfort between his legs, steeled himself with a sharp intake of air, his grip on her midsection tightening almost painfully as they rose, slowly and carefully, out of the carpark.

A woman of her word, Lucy was indeed very gentle, at least to begin with. She didn’t want her passenger throwing in the towel after only five minutes, after all. 

Moving at an even clip, they weaved between the gabled buildings, curving around a bell tower, even grazing past a large flock of glowing paper cranes that scattered in surprise, their delicate wings flapping against the night sky. The lights of the Withy glittered below them, an intricate mosaic of vibrant shop windows and swirling lanterns, the quiet hum of magic growing steadily dimmer.

Unfortunately, the higher they climbed, the more turbulent the air became. And the more turbulent the air became, the more Jack’s tension mounted.

‘This is fine,’ he muttered, through clenched teeth, repeating the phrase like an invocation. ‘This is fine. This is fine. This is—’

'Not working, huh?’ Lucy said sympathetically, glancing over her shoulder at the increasingly frantic gestures he was making with his right hand; some arcane combination of fluttering fingers and sharp flicks. She could only assume it was an attempt to stabilise the air currents.

It didn’t appear to be going particularly well.

‘Very astute,’ Jack responded dryly, without breaking his gaze.

‘Why is that? Your whole “deal” is controlling the weather, after all. Or have I been misunderstanding all these years?’

‘You've been understanding correctly. In the wintertime temperature gradients between air masses are at their most acute, leading to sharper differences aloft and higher winds within the jet streams,' he rattled off, in his designated Aren't I Clever voice. 

'You don't have authority over the jet streams?’ she pressed, already knowing the answer.

'I have authority over the Polar stream, sure. But if I were to tamper with it now, in the interest of making this journey more bearable, the ramifications would be far-reaching and I'd more than likely end up in the dog house, from the Council’s perspective. Instead, I'm forced to mitigate conditions at a more localised level, which is not unlike trying to smooth down the wrinkles in a bedsheet while someone much bigger and stronger is at the other end shaking it out. This is fine. This is f— !’

Jack's language, much like his skin tone, took a rather violent turn for the blue as he and Lucy were stuck by a powerful downdraft.

‘Okay, you’re okay! I’ve got you,’ she called out, her voice raised slightly to cut through the roar of the wind. She kept one hand firm on the broom and the other braced against his arm, steadying him as best she could. ‘It’s just a few bumps, is all — totally normal! No need to be scared.’

‘“Scared”. Pssht. G-Gimme a break,’ Jack muttered, though Lucy didn’t miss the way his arms cinched a little tighter around her, his heart pounding so fiercely in his chest that she could feel it between her shoulder blades. ‘Jack Frost doesn’t get scared. I-I-I’m just trying to preserve my hair, is what it is. Hours of painstaking effort and it’s getting blown about beyond salvageability.’

'You're wearing a helmet.'

'W-- exactly! I'm quickly coming down with a pernicious case of hat hair. Such inimitable perfection, cut down in its prime.'

‘Oh good God, the humanity. Shall we throw a wake in its memory? Shall we invite Jen Atkin?’ 

When Lucy’s efforts to get a laugh out of her companion fell flatter than a flying carpet with engine trouble, she tried a different approach: ‘You used to fly the sleigh, didn’t you? In the, um, Other Timeline, anyway. This is basically the same thing, if you really think about it! …Except for the lack of reindeer, I guess. And airbags. And… well, a sleigh—’

‘And the fact that I was in control of that, not at the mercy of Jane Jetson and her New Age Space Segway— don’t look at me, keep your eyes forwa— forward, Miller, for Heaven’s sake! Or are you trying to go through someone's window?’ Jack’s voice was now so shrill it was sure to be disrupting local canine communication channels.

Too, the increasing pressure of his arms around her diaphragm was beginning to make Lucy see stars. Though, given that she was the one who put them there in the first place, she didn’t really feel like she could make any kind of comment on the matter. You reap what you sow, etcetera, etcetera.

It wasn’t the worst way to go out, in all fairness...

Gasping for breath, she whipped out her wand and pointed it ahead of her, choking out the word, “Evanescet”. As they plunged through the resulting forcefield a strange cooling sensation trickled down both of their spines.

‘What was that?’ Jack yelped, the words muffled by Lucy’s hair, in which his face was thoroughly buried.

‘Disillusionment spell — we’re now completely invisible to the ordibeing eye!’

‘Oh goo-die. Perfect fodder for commercial jets! Y’know, I always did want my body scattered over somewhere of note when I died; I just would’ve preferred it to have been cremated first.’

‘To be fair, I think a jet engine would do a fairly thorough job of that! Although I'm pretty sure your body just goes to Rosehaven when you die...?’

‘I was being ironic!’

She loosed a breathless laugh, exhilaration bright behind her ribs. The wind surged around them, lifting them higher, unspooling the knots of tension that had gathered between her shoulders. There was nothing quite like this — the heady rush of air, the weightlessness, the brief illusion of being untethered from the world below. It soothed her in a way little else could. When venturing out alone she would often slip on her favourite headphones, thumbing through her designated Flying Playlist (Led Zeppelin when she needed motivation, Enya when she was feeling meditative), and lose herself in the sky. After a gruelling shift at the hospital, or first thing in the morning before the day’s weight settled on her shoulders, she always returned to this.

She loved her work. Lived it, breathed it, often dreamt of it. It felt etched into her very bones, not just a career but a calling; her raison d’être, one might say. And yet, there were days — more than she liked to admit — when it weighed on her. The ones where she sat by a child's bedside and held a tiny hand, when she had to deliver bad news to a loved one. Those days stayed with her, settled in the quiet spaces of her mind. Up here, she gave herself permission to sift through them, to let the grief and the trauma breathe.

Other thoughts crowded in, too. Her parents. Their aging. The subtle but certain signs of struggle each time she visited. They never said it outright, of course. They were too proud for that. But she saw the stiffness in her father’s movements, the extra seconds her mother took to gather herself before standing. Charlie did what he could, when he wasn’t wrangling his classroom of thirteen-year-olds or ferrying his own kids between soccer practices and birthday parties. Three rambunctious children and a full-time career dominated his schedule, and what little time remained was swiftly snatched up by Santa Claus training. An unconventional but undeniable reality of their family life.

In the end, any future care Neil and Laura may require would fall predominantly to Lucy. Unwedded and childless as she was. It wasn’t a burden, just a truth she had accepted. The question was, how would she manage it? Would she have to take a step back from her career? Give up her dream of leading the department one day? Would she still find time to honour responsibilities to her godchildren, her friends?

Money wasn’t too much of a concern, thankfully; despite her comments to Jack earlier. Splashing out on unnecessary luxuries had never been her style, but she made a decent living wage at the hospital. And Melusine refused, point-blank, to charge her rent. No matter how many times Lucy insisted, or how creative she got with slipping money into coat pockets and desk drawers, Mel always found a way to return it. The Willow barely had utility costs, magic shouldering most of the burden, so she couldn’t even pitch in there. It left her restless, unsure how to repay the generosity.

And she worried about Mel. Worried that she spent too much time alone, too much time inside her own head. Worried that any attempts to draw her out might be misread as judgement or over-interference. It was a delicate thing, this line between care and intrusion, and Lucy walked it carefully.

Then, of course, there was the matter of the disappearances. The missing magi-humans. 

For weeks now, the city’s magical community had been abuzz with speculation, details saturating every headline, whispered in every café and clinic waiting room. It was troubling. Deeply troubling. Lucy vacillated wildly between wanting to push the matter from her mind entirely and the undeniable pull of curiosity. Of the aching need to do something.

All of these elements combined, plus many more, had over time calcified into a dense weight at the bottom of her stomach, so tangible she could almost touch the edges of it, map out its shape. 

But flying… flying eased that weight. If only for a time. 

The ground felt stifling, by comparison. Constricting. It closed in around her like the dark, narrow passageways from her dreams. Those claustrophobic corridors with no doors, no windows, just stone and shadow and the press of something unseen at her back. They’d started twelve years ago, after the incident at Harvard, and had never truly gone away. Over time, they’d begun to bleed into another recurring dreamscape: One where she’d carved out whole lives in different centuries: A healer in plague-era London, an alchemist in a skyborne archipelago, a scholar hiding forbidden tomes in a candlelit library beneath Constantinople. Lives that felt too vivid to be fantasy. Lives so vast, so richly-detailed, they left her feeling jittery and disorientated when she awoke, the scars on her hands throbbing ominously.

Thankfully, those markings (and her magic in general) hadn’t pained her to any great extent in several years, or they’d be something else to add to the list.

In the event that she craved a little company on her excursions, she could occasionally persuade Melusine to venture up with her. The latter’s own flying apparatus was a little on the doddering side, to put it kindly. More mop than broom, and an old and dirty one at that, but it knew how to do all the things a broom did, which was the important thing. Albeit at a slower/more meandering pace. 

More oft than not, though, it was just Lucy, the stars and her thoughts. Sometimes for hours. It was nice to have one of those thoughts joining her this eve. Even if he seemed intent on wringing her of her organs, at present. 

Higher and higher they climbed, until they were passing wisps of chilly cloud, New York unfolding below them like a map of the cosmos. Lucy could even make out the multicoloured dots which were cars packed into the narrow streets, or else pouring in and out of the city over the various bridges.

'Can you not?' she frowned, when Jack made a funny sort of "ppfft" noise into her hair. 'Either it's started raining or you just spat down my neck.'

'Your hair keeps going in my mouth.'

'Well then stop sticking your face in it, you walnut! I know it smells fantastic — a blend of lilac oil, honeysuckle pollen and Wolf Flower extract, in case you were wondering — but you're missing this gorgeous view! Go on, take a peek.'

‘And see exactly how many seconds of consciousness I would have before needing to be scraped off the steps of Time Square like burger meat? I think I'll pass, thanks.'

‘Around twenty-two point two seven, bearing in mind your height to weight ratio!' Lucy answered brightly, doggedly overlooking the sarcasm. 'Plenty of time to teleport.’

‘A fine way to lose particles.’

‘So is becoming “burger meat”.’

‘Hmph.’

‘…You’re really not going to look?’

‘I'm really not, no.’

‘Ooka~ay,’ she trilled, lifting her shoulders in a blithesome shrug. ‘But it’s your lo~oss. Remember the whole point of this little excursion was for you to enjoy yourself. See what it’s like to actually, truly fly.’

Jack was forced to concede that she was right. Much as it always pained him to admit it.

Tentatively, he raised his head. 

It was, in fact, gorgeous. A snow moon tilted its light over the city, stripping Central Park to the starch-white of new parchment, while the surrounding skyscrapers bolstered the heavens like spangled pillars.

‘Oh my,’ he muttered. ‘Would y’look at that.’

‘See? Mr. Ye of Little Faith.’

‘Yes, I… I do.’

Once they’d reached her desired altitude, Lucy pitched the handle towards the horizon, effecting a steady cruise. 

Having put the broom in the magical equivalent of autopilot, she straightened her spine, pinched her nose between her thumb and forefinger, and announced, in a nasally drawl, ‘Good evening, gents and gents! This is your captain speaking. We have reached our cruising altitude of, uh. Well, high. No need for specifics, right? The seatbelt sign has now been turned off, however please do not feel free to roam about the cabin, seeing as it’s only a couple of inches in diameter. We won’t be serving meals today, nor will we be playing any in-flight entertainment, but we’re certain the views from outside will more than compensate for that!

‘On your left you can see such iconic landmarks as the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Madison Square Gardens. On your right we have Staten Island and good ol’ Lady Lib. Serving looks, as always. Oh, and over there is Long Island, which— well, your average Manhattaner tries not to talk about that, actually. Or acknowledge it in general.’

Jack exhaled abruptly through his nose, which Lucy chose to interpret as an expression of amusement. ‘Very good. Really got that barely-comprehensible, perpetually-congested quality down.’

‘I learnt from the master.’

She waited until they were over the worst of the bumps to loosen her grip fully, craning around to see how her passenger was faring. To her delight, his expression was the same as it was when he played the piano or sketched out some new and complex snowflake design: A soft, almost childlike curiosity, overlain with intense absorption. So enthralled was he, in fact, that he completely missed the tender smile that touched her lips as she watched him. 

After a moment's hesitation, she lowered her hand to where his was still knotted in the fabric of her dress and gave it a small squeeze, her thumb grazing lightly over the backs of his knuckles. Only then did he seem to realise that he was suffocating her, for all intents and purposes — loosening his grip just enough that she was able to draw in a full breath.

‘I knew you’d love it once you got up here,’ she said, with only a hint of smugness.

He managed a shaky laugh, though he wasn’t entirely sure if it was out of enjoyment or sheer relief. ‘“Love” might be a little over-enthused. But it is something, I’ll admit.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘There’s no need to be coy about the altitude, though. I can see it clearly on that lil’ doohickey there. Eight-thousand feet.’ He swallowed down bile, his voice cracking slightly on his next words: ‘Do you usually come up this high?’

‘Actually I, uh… usually go higher.’

‘And how much higher is “higher”, exactly?’

‘Well, I mean, my highest was around sixty-thousand.’

‘Six— sixTY thousand?! As in, six-zero?’

‘Give or take, mm.’

‘Lucy that’s the stratosphere.’

‘It is! Yes. O-oh, don’t worry,’ Lucy was quick to add, when she saw the look of horror on Jack’s face, ‘I was very careful. The moment I felt the saliva on my tongue boiling, I came straight down.’

"Straight" was an understatement. She’d broken the sound-barrier, reaching such intense speeds that the handle of her broom had caught fire. She’d also narrowly missed colliding with a weather balloon, a news helicopter, and been picked up by both Federal Aviation Administration and NASA radar, which had been a witch-with-a-“B” to deal with, in the paperwork department. Thankfully, she had a long-standing contact at the latter — young lad she used to tutor/babysit when she was a teenager; now an aeronautical engineer — so she’d managed to get off with little more than a slap on her wrist.

She decided not to disclose any of these additional details, though. What Jack didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

‘So, you’re… insane, is what you're telling me,’ was his only (somewhat halting) response, revelation and morbid acceptance mingling in his tone. ‘Of course you are, that’s the only logical explanation for this. Great, yes, good to know. I’ve been abducted by a crazy lady and now I’m hanging seven-thousand-feet above sea-level with her.’

‘Eight-thousand feet.’

‘Eight-thousand, even better. Tell me, is-is that a redhead thing? Or just a Lucy Thing? I’m curious.’

‘Jack, I’ve told you, you can’t say stuff like that nowadays. You’ll get yourself cancelled.’

‘No, but really. What on earth could have possessed you to do something so reckless?’

‘Science,’ Lucy answered simply, pulling her goggles down under her chin.

‘Science demands that you take unmitigated risks, does it? Are you sure that isn’t just the voices in your head talking?’

‘Quite sure, yes. Science is punk rock, bud, the empirical stuff especially. It’s giving yourself radiation poisoning in the process of discovering a new element. It’s destroying your retinas from countless hours of observing solar activity using rudimentary telescope technology. It’s hanging 0.9 kilogram weights from your reproductive organs in order to study the phenomenon of referred pain.’

‘Delightful. Who did that?’

‘Anatomists Herbert Woollard and Edward Carmichael. Unfortunately their findings weren’t scientifically valid because no other researcher has been willing to repeat the experiment since.’

‘The mind boggles as to why.’

‘—Then there was Henry Head, who severed the radial nerve in his left arm while conducting research on nerve damage. Allan Blair, who allowed himself to be bitten by a black widow spider as a more direct means of studying the effects of its venom. Giovanni Grassi, who ingested live roundworms in an effort to better understand their lifecycles. Self experimentation is the bedrock of scientific discovery! Me, personally? I wanted to see to what extent I could skirt the Armstrong limit before my charms gave out.’

‘“Charms”?’

'Well, charm, really. Singular.' Lucy tilted her head back, gazing up at the dark vault of sky, speckled with stars. ‘It took years of trial and error to perfect, but I think I’ve had a breakthrough, in recent months. I call it Vitae Lumen. It envelops the wearer in a thin, invisible barrier that functions like a localised version of the Ozone Layer, photolysing UV rays into oxygen so that the person wrapped in it is able to breathe just as easily as if they were on the ground — meaning zero risk of hypoxia. And, as an added bonus it also protects them from the harmful effects of electromagnetic radiation. Photolysis is an exothermic reaction, of course, which means that the wearer maintains a normal internal temperature, despite the low external temperatures. Neat, right?'

Jack gawked at her. 

‘…What?' she said, nonplussed.

‘I'm assuming "N.E.A.T." is code for Newtonian-level Exemplar of Analytical Thinking.’

‘Oh my gosh, no! It definitely isn’t.’ Those same spots of colour reappeared on her cheeks, twice as vibrant as before, and Jack felt an abstruse sort of pride at having managed to make her blush more brilliantly than that painted palooka, back in the Withy. ‘Really. It’s just nature. And me, I guess, tapping into it. Or Her, rather. But it's been a fun little side-project, at the very least!’

Jack let out a short laugh, more out of awe than amusement. 

‘“Side project”,’ he repeated, voice laden with disbelief. ‘Like you’ve taken up scrapbooking or something. You’re an extraordinary woman, you know that? Seriously.’ 

The waggish cant to his mouth softened slightly as Lucy leaned back against him in a silent show of gratitude, his wry expression giving way to something altogether gentler. She felt so warm and delicate in his arms. Not in a fragile way, necessarily (although he did wish she'd eat a bit more regularly, especially while on-call); but something about the way she fit against him, so trusting and unguarded in moments like these, lit up a soft, amorphous instinct in him. Made him want to draw her closer. Keep her there.

He angled his chin up slightly to accommodate her abundance of hair, warmth unfurling inside his chest, like embers stirred to life in a long-cold grate.

The neat and classic do had been thoroughly undone by the wind, by this stage. Now it tumbled freely around her shoulders in soft, chaotic spirals, a few stubborn strands catching in the collar of his jacket. The texture had changed over the years, Jack noticed. Ever since her magical surges began, there’d been a kind of wildness to it. A static energy that resisted taming. It had worried him, initially — another symptom of a condition neither of them yet understood — but as the surges themselves settled down, he'd become increasingly fond of it.

'Hello there,' he said softly, charmed by her sudden reticence.

'Hi.'

'Modest little thing, aren't we? Would you rather I held my tongue in future?’

Lucy's gaze was downcast, feathery lashes fluttering in the breeze. A prismatic shimmer dusted her eyelids — like the iridescence on butterfly wings — catching the light with every blink. The outer corners were lined in a deep indigo, Jack observed, perfectly echoing the cool undertones of her dress. 

‘Yes.' She bobbed her head slightly. 'I think I would. I never really know how to deal with compliments. Especially from you.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

‘You’re all catty and sassy most of the time. You don’t exactly hand them out like candy.’

‘Well, they wouldn’t be worth much if I did, would they? Can’t go flooding the market with valuable currency.’ Jack grinned, amused — but also thoughtful. Perhaps he should hand them out a bit more liberally; at least to her. There was something deeply satisfying about watching the unflappable Dr. Miller fluster and glow under so little provocation. It was quickly developing into a new and absorbing sub-hobby, under the umbrella of Bothering Lucy.

'That’s what you do in your spare time, then, is it?’ he asked, moving an errant tress over her shoulder to keep it from blowing in his face. ‘You come up here and practice your homage to Jerry Lewis' Nutty Professor? Very Method. Though the slapstick could use a little work, if you don't mind my saying.'

'Not always. Sometimes I just need to escape the world for a bit. Blow off some steam. Being so high up always makes my problems seem that much smaller, y’know? More in-perspective.’

‘And do you usually bring prospective cadavers up with you? And by that I do of course mean passengers.’

‘Aside from Mel? You’re, um… actually the first.’

A flicker of surprise softened Jack’s expression. ‘I am?’

Lucy nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the horizon. ‘It’s kind of my safe space, I guess. One of them, anyway. There are five, in total.’

The others (which she proceeded to describe to Jack now) included Harvard’s Widener Library, before the attack. The garden at her childhood home in Illinois: A rambling patch of wildflowers and herbs where she’d spent countless solitary afternoons. And, more recently, her laboratory beneath the Willow: A magically-enlarged chamber carved seamlessly into the bedrock. 

Like Melusine’s bedroom and the den above it, the lab boasted Lake-facing windows. Thick, spell-treated partitions that looked directly out onto the murky depths of the lakebed. Pale light filtered through the water at all hours, refracted in dappled greens and blues, giving the whole space an oddly tranquil, dreamlike atmosphere.

Broadly speaking, Lucy disliked being underground, having developed an unfortunate aversion to tight spaces in her adult years -- something not even her closest friends knew about her. But the room was surprisingly expansive/airy, lit by a constellation of lambency orbs in varying hues, floating lazily overhead like oversized fireflies. Lucy had even enchanted the ceiling to mirror the sky outside in real time. Particularly useful for charting celestial patterns on nights when she didn’t have the energy to trek all the way up to the observatory on the top floor.

A chorus of self-maintaining cauldrons simmered on sunken plinths, each bubbling with slow, ongoing experiments. Multicoloured vials lined open shelves, labelled in a tight, neat script, and the air was tinged with the scent of herbs, alcohol, and ozone. Along one wall stood rows of preserved specimens suspended in formalin; curious biological oddities from both the magical and non-magical worlds. Along another hung a series of skeletal displays: A reconstructed bicorn, a juvenile kelpie, the lower half of a merperson.

The wall at the rear of the lab was covered in frames of various sizes, displaying certificates, diplomas, awards, a Master’s Degree in Karterology. Minor satellites orbiting the radiant barycentre of her joint M.M.D.-phD. While undoubtedly proud of her academic achievements, Lucy disliked the idea of hanging them somewhere others might see them. That seemed ludicrously big-headed. But they offered a revivifying reminder of how far she’d come from the young woman who once feared her unassuming character and mortal heritage might preclude her from reaching magi-scientific heights during her lifetime. Not only had she reached those heights, she had forged past them, pioneering groundbreaking treatments that married the precision of non-magical medicine with the transformative potential of healing spellcraft, each success further proof that the barriers she’d once feared were nothing but illusions.

Thus comprised the four physical spaces, such as they were. The fifth space, by contrast, wasn’t a space at all. Not in the four walls and a floor sense, anyway. Rather… four limbs and a (rather overinflated) head, and it was the one Lucy was least inclined to tell present company about. 

‘I’m fairly choosy about who I let in each of them,’ she clarified, glancing up at Jack from beneath her lashes. ‘Especially this one. Though I suppose… technically speaking, you could count…’

She trailed off, looking oddly embarrassed all of a sudden.

Jack tilted his head, watching her with amused curiosity. ‘Go on.’

After hesitating for a moment, Lucy gave a small, almost sheepish smile. ‘Do you remember my ex-boyfriend Ædvik?’

Jack frowned, cudgelling his brains for a face to put to the name. ‘Be-winged gentleman, if I’m not mistaken? Shy? Kind of nerdy-looking? Laughed like a tea kettle?’

‘He did not laugh like a tea kettle, thank you. But yes. That’s the guy. Fellow Dark Magical Injury specialist, moved to the continent from Sri Lanka. Though he ended up switching to paediatrics further down the line, which is how I got so familiar with the department. We were seeing each other throughout the final semester of grad school, and then into my first couple of years at Gen.’

‘Ah yes,’ Jack said, the memory slotting into place now. ‘I recall you being fairly serious, for a time. You brought him to the Fat Man's Christmas shindig one year.’

‘That’s right, I did.’

Jack could picture it now: Himself, sauntering from corner to corner with a cocktail in hand, mingling, as he was wont to do; exchanging pleasantries with friends, colleagues and strangers alike. The usual shuffle of overlong introductions and pithy anecdotes. And then, through the blur of chatter and enchanted snowflakes, he’d caught sight of Lucy and her new beau — a short, rather spindle-shanked young man with jade-green eyes; tawny feathers for hair — cloistered beneath the mistletoe. 

Lucy had risen up on her tiptoes to kiss the lad’s cheek, whispering something in his ear that turned him an impressive shade of magenta. After a beat, “Ædvik”(?) (whom Jack guessed to be in his early to mid thirties, or the magical equivalent) had seemed to collect himself, leaning down to murmur something back. The result had been a surprising one: Lucy giggling in a way that struck Jack as… distinctly un-Lucy-like. Unrestrained, girlish, even a bit bashful.

He remembered smiling at the sight. It had been sweet. Strange, even, to see his prim and practical friend behaving in such a manner.

Nowadays, the memory still made him smile, but only faintly. It also brought with it that same low, gnawing sensation. The one he couldn’t quite name.

Perhaps it was just hunger, Jack hypothesised. He’d barely touched the mid-afternoon lunch he'd scraped together for himself. Too busy fussing over his appearance after a gruelling twelve-hour shift. Between taming his hair, steaming his shirt twice, and debating the merits of two near-identical jackets, he’d scarcely had time to glance at the sandwich, let alone eat it. Though perhaps what little he had managed to get down was now considering an early exit, after that less-than-steady takeoff?

In any case, it occurred to him, somewhat belatedly, that this was a part of Lucy's life he knew relatively little about. Her preferences, what sort of people she gravitated towards, romantically-speaking. From what he’d seen/heard, there was a definite trend. Brilliant minds, shining resumes, a certain mutual intensity. Fellow medics. Thinkers. Nerds.

‘Our college campus had a flying pitch, as most tend to nowadays,’ she ploughed on, drawing Jack back to the present. She was speaking with significant use of her hands, he noticed (not without disconcertment. He couldn't help but wish that she’d keep at least one on the broom handle). ‘And there was this one night, when…’ 

Her lower lip snagged between her teeth, drawing attention to its petal-like softness. 

‘—We’d just come out of an evening class, for context. Numerometrics and arithmurgical diagnostics, which we were both taking as an elective—’

‘Numeromet-what?’ Jack interrupted, with an upraised hand.

‘Numerometrics and arithmurgical diagnostics. Deriving magical constants from patient biodata, quantifying the degenerative pull of dark enchantments, forecasting illness progression using magical time-series figures, that sort of thing.’

‘I see. So kid stuff, basically. Got it.’

‘Anyway, the sky was unusually clear for that time of year, and I wanted to get in a bit of practice before the end-of-term flight assessments. The pitch was always deserted on Fridays — everyone else was off partying in one of the on-campus bars — so we were completely alone up there. Bear this in mind going forwards, okay?’

Jack gave a full-bodied chuckle. ‘Of course you were spending your Friday night at a math class.’

'Oh shush,' Lucy pursed her lips to keep from smirking, elbowing him gently in the ribcage. ‘Some of us find integrating spell matrices far more exciting than sticky dance floors and endless games of pool. But that’s besides the point. Æd said he wanted to come up with me, given how little we’d seen each other that week (exams, and such) so we turned it into a date of sorts, and…’

‘And?’

‘This may be a little TMI, sorry.’

‘My, I’ll be poised to clutch my pearls, in that case. We all know what a paragon of propriety I am, after all.’

‘You won’t laugh at me?’ She raised entreating brows at him. ‘Or judge me too harshly?’

‘Let's find out.’

‘I’m telling you this very much in confidence, Jack.’

‘And how deeply unwise of you. Continue.’

She regarded him with soft censure, but elected not to dignify the quip with a response, on this occasion. ‘We were flying around for a good hour or so — chatting, listening to our favourite dungeon synth tunes. It was a warm night, the stars were out, romantic vibes off the charts. One thing lead to another and we ended up getting slightly… carried away…’

Having anticipated the direction of this tale from the outset, Jack couldn’t help the lopsided grin that curved across his face.

‘Why, Dr. Miller,’ he said, tone thick with mock-scandalisation. ‘Out in the open? On a broomstick, no less? The sin of it all, I find myself quite shaken up.’

‘I know.’ She covered her face in shame — deaf, apparently, to the fondly teasing note in his voice. ‘Oh God, it was undoubtedly the worst idea anyone’s ever had. And that includes Project Pluto. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

‘Does that mean you’re a member of the Mile High Club now?’ Jack mused, with a finger to his lips.

‘Don’t.’

‘Certainly a feat of gymnastic prowess, if nothing else. I cannot even begin to imagine how that would work, mechanics-wise—’

‘It didn’t! That’s the point. Thank goodness he was part-garuda or he probably would’ve ended up qualifying for a Darwin Award.’

Jack did laugh then. Loudly. Gripping Lucy’s waist to steady himself.

‘You dropped the poor fella?!’ he wheezed.

‘Technically-speaking, gravity dropped him,’ she muttered into her hands, only half-defensive. ‘I just… didn’t prevent it in time. He ended up falling off mid— w-well, mid. He was so embarrassed about it too, bless him. Flew away before I could even say sorry.’

‘Is that why things went the way of the Hindenburg between you two?’

She shook her head again, exhaling wistfully. ‘No. No, we just… we were on different pages in the relationship, I guess you could say. It was all very amicable in the end, and we stayed good friends.’

But the truth, of course, was a little more complicated than that.

Lucy had been the one to break things off. Ædvik, sweet and passionate and hopelessly smitten as he was, had been ready to move forward at a pace she simply couldn’t match. He’d started talking about the future with a kind of blithe conviction — houses they could buy, rings he’d been eyeing, even potential baby names he’d floated one lazy Sunday morning. He’d wanted roots. Stability. A quiet, shared life wrapped around each other like ivy.

And Lucy… hadn’t. Not yet, anyway.

Her career had just begun to bloom into something real, something meaningful. Research opportunities were opening up, she was starting to present at conferences, and there was talk of a rotation abroad. She loved the work. Loved the challenge of it, the speed and stretch of thinking required, the exhilaration of knowing she was standing on the edge of what magic and medicine could achieve together. Most of all, she loved helping people. Being there for them at their most vulnerable. There hadn’t been space in her life for white picket fences or long-term promises. Not then.

And, if she was being brutally honest with herself — an honesty that still came with the faintest sting — there had also been someone else. Someone whose presence had quietly started to take up more and more room in her thoughts. The guilt of feeling that shift, of knowing she was slipping away from one person while her heart tilted unaccountably towards another (an individual who, quite frankly, she’d long felt drawn to), had been the final nudge she needed to let go.

The fact that the person in question showed no signs of returning those feelings was neither here nor there. This wasn’t about reciprocation, it was about decency. Honour. In the end, it was her own sense of morality (paired with a keen, unflinching desire to pursue the career she’d worked so hard to build) that had ultimately guided her actions. She regretted it only insofar as hurting Ædvik’s feelings. From every other perspective it had been the right decision. The ethical decision.

Since then, Lucy had entertained a single, protracted dalliance with a fellow curse therapy specialist, entered into with the mutual understanding that it would be just that: Casual, uncomplicated. A bit of stress relief between shifts. For someone who valued physical intimacy, it had been perfectly enjoyable… but ultimately hollow. Unfulfilling in any lasting way. A means of clearing her head without disrupting the Golden Rule by which she lived her life. That her work, and her patients, came first. 

‘And is that one of the “problems” you come up here to contemplate?’ Jack’s voice cut through her reverie, making her startle just slightly. She felt his hand tighten instinctively at her waist, keeping her steady. ‘Your relationship woes?’

‘Sorry?’

'You said coming up here makes your problems feel smaller,' he expanded, running her through with those sharp blue eyes of his. 

‘Did I say that?’

‘You did. I may be old, Miller, but I’m not deaf. Yet, anyway.’

‘Oh.’ The broom bobbed slightly as Lucy shifted her weight. ‘Right, yeah.’

‘Would you say that’s a regular occurrence?'

The question lingered, uncomfortably sincere. 

Lucy’s smile faltered a little, before she forced it back into place, brushing off the shift in conversation with an elegant toss of her hair. 'Pfffshno. No, definitely not.'

‘Are you sure? That was about as convincing as a Nixon interview. All you're missing is the sweaty upper lip.’

‘Of course I'm sure! It’s me, after all, I’m not really one to ruminate on things. I just— …s-sometimes I feel a little tired, I guess. Or overworked or… well, you know how it is, Jack. What with your busy schedule. “Full steam ahead mode”, as you put it earlier. Speaking of,' she hastened on, directing his gaze across the rooftops, 'do you, uhm. Do you think you could carry out your “Snow Business” from up here?'

Opting to put a proverbial pin in the matter, for the time being, Jack followed her gesture — to the sprawling metropolis beyond, laid out before them like a cake waiting to be iced.

‘Actually,' he said, rubbing his unusually pointed chin between his thumb and forefinger, 'that’s not a bad idea.' 

He made a subtle motion with his hand, long, dexterous fingers splayed wide. A chill crept down his arm, and moments later, delicate flakes began to materialise, drifting from his fingertips like threads of spider silk. 

Within minutes the city was under his spell. Snow gathering on rooftops, clinging to the spires of buildings, frosting the ironwork of old fire escapes and turning them into glistening sculptures.

For the next hour or so, he and Lucy glided through the crisp night air, Lucy steering them with practiced ease. The street lamps below transformed into halos of light, their glass tops collecting fine layers of frost that twinkled like diamonds. Windowpanes of high-rises shivered under Jack’s touch, the frost creeping across them in fine, filigree patterns.

'Showoff,' Lucy quipped, her eyes twinkling with admiration.

Jack’s bark of mirth was lost in the rush of wind. 'You love it.’

Yes. Unfortunately, she did.

They swooped low over the Hudson, the water reflecting their descent in a broad, undulating canvas. Lucy leaned forward slightly, urging the broom into a graceful arc that skimmed the river’s surface. Belting out errant refrains of Sinatra’s “Come Fly With Me”, Jack reached forth, his fingers brushing the water, and with a pulse of energy, it hardened under his touch. Ice spread out in crystalline veins, crackling into a thin sheet that caught the city lights like a mirror.

Lucy let out a whoop, the sound a bright contrast to the dark, still air, and Jack felt something loosen in his chest.

For all his skepticism, she’d been right. As she so often was. 

This was fun. 

Though whether it was the ride itself he was enjoying, or simply seeing her so happy, he couldn’t be sure.