The Curiosity Shop was the Vesperas' birthright; their legacy. At least, that's how Amias viewed it. He'd only been ten when his father died, and in his absence, he'd vowed to run the shop in his place. Like a Vespera would. But his mother hadn't allowed it—he was to protect his little sister, Verity. Watch over her, be the guidance she needed. He'd abhorred the thought of being degraded to a sitter, teaching little Verity what to do and how to do the things he'd never been allowed to do. He hadn't understood.
Even now, he could still feel the crushing realization of the truth. A truth he'd beared like a burden for the rest of his life. In order to run the shop—in order to make elixirs or bottled starlight—you needed magic. Magic had always been in the Vespera blood, but Amias still couldn't understand why it didn't bother to be in his.
The gentle ring of a bell let him know the little shop had been visited by a customer, their heavy footsteps thudding against the parlor's aged wooden floorboards. His mother or Emmaline would welcome them without missing a beat, and it was his job—as always—to keep Verity away from sight. He supposed the only person he understood to an extent was his little sister. His mother refused to relive what happened that night eight years ago by retelling it, but he'd heard Verity's magic had become too wild to be tamed.
Like him, she couldn't be out there with the rest of the Vesperas, running the shop like she should. No, they were tucked away behind the shop, looking through one of the emporium's little books about magical remedies and its dozens of otherworldly recipes. Recipes that, if he hadn't known magic existed, he wouldn't have believed.
"Amias?" Verity's soft voice interrupted his reading as she scooted higher up his lap, pushing the book away from his face. "I want to go outside."
Grief and dread twinged his heart, making him wince as he glanced down at those round blue eyes. What else could he tell her but what he'd practically recited everyday? For whatever reason, Verity wasn't allowed to be seen, even if that meant she couldn't feel the sun against her skin, or the cold kiss of a passing breeze. "Verity…" He closed the book with a thud, releasing a weighted breath. "As much as I wish you could, you can't go out there. It's dangerous."
Verity frowned, her heart-shaped lips pulling into a pout. "But Amias, I'm bored. Can't I go outside for a little bit? We could…" She screwed her face, scooting closer to him and picking at the golden embroidery stitched across his blue shirt. "Play hide and seek! Except we're hiding and everybody else is the seeker. That way no one will see us and it won't be dangerous."
Amias couldn't help but laugh, grasping both of her tiny hands in his as the bell jingled a second time, inviting another customer into the shop's parlor. "I'll give you this—you're clever, but mom would never agree to that, and you know it."
"But you're in charge of me," she whispered, pressing her forehead against his chest. "You're supposed to tell me what I can and can't do, that's what she said!"
"Yes, but she's supposed to tell me what I can and can't do." Amias released her hands, brushing his hands through her wheat-gold curls. "And I promised her I'd protect you, and I won't break that promise because I love my mom and…" He bent his head, bracing his brow against hers. "I love you more than anything."
"If you love me, you'd let me go." Verity's round blue eyes bored into his, burning with desperation. "I don't want to stay in here forever, Amias. I want to go outside like everybody else, and I know you don't want to watch over me forever. I know you want to run the shop."
The words hit him like a barrage of arrows, every last one achingly true.
He understood her longing, he truly did. All he wanted was one drop of magic—just enough to be seen as a Vespera and not a complete stranger to his own family. And all Verity wanted was to be free, even if it was just for a day. It would take an impossible miracle for his wish to come true, but the painful truth was it only took his word for Verity to live like a normal little girl for even just a day.
No one would answer his prayers, but he could be a chance for Verity's to be answered. Couldn't he give that much to her? Yes, it was a risk, but she'd been here in Winterwink for eight years and nothing ever happened. Maybe, despite it all, he could allow this. Just once. For her sake, and maybe even his.
Amias swallowed hard, angling his head to view the grandfather clock ticking on the deep-green wall. It was nearly three O' clock, when the shop was at its busiest. If the two of them slipped out now, and returned before the hour was up, no one would notice their absence.
"Okay," he breathed, smiling as Verity beamed up at him, barely holding back her gasp. "But you have to be quiet, stay hidden, and—"
"Don't talk to strangers—"
"—or sneak out of the bounds of our shop. You know what that means. No going beyond the fence." Amias pulled her up into his arms, easing from the velvet settee and lifting himself to his feet. "I'm counting on you to keep us both out of trouble."
Verity grinned, that small gap in between her teeth giving her the strange appearance of a mischievous imp. "I promise!" She whispered, patting his shoulder with her little palm. "Now let's go, please? You're so slow!"
"And you're being rude," Amias whispered back, nuzzling his nose against hers and relishing in her giggle before lowering her to the floor, allowing her this chance to guide herself. He didn't know how long she'd waited for this moment, but once her hand grasped the doorknob of the rickety back door and gave a gentle twist, her hesitation said it all.
This was it. This was her wish, her dream.
Verity turned her head, looking up at him with the faintest smile. "Thank you."
Somehow, the gratitude eased the tight coil of dread locking his muscles. She deserved more, she deserved—at the very least—to live a normal life, no matter what happened when she was born. And all this time, he'd had the ability to give her that, and why hadn't he? Why was keeping her trapped like this so important?
"You don't have to thank me," he said, shuffling to a stop beside her. "Why don't you just go out there and enjoy it while you can? It'll be getting dark sooner than you think." He tried to smile, but even as Verity gave a determined nod and slipped through the back door, golden curls bouncing, the full weight of his words echoed in the crowded parlor.
Enjoy it while you can, Verity.
#
Beneath the gnarled shadow of a towering oak, Amias read aloud the age-old myth of the Stitcher and the Nightingale while Verity climbed about the tree's twisted branches. There'd been a time he hated books, hated the way they were nothing but words inked across weathered pages.
But when he was ten years old, and learned the hard truth that he held no magic, he'd searched for something—anything—to keep his mind off of the present disappointment. His view on books had changed significantly since then, because they were a different breed of magic altogether. The only kind of magic he could touch, or even create.
"I don't get it," Verity called from her perch on a low-hanging branch, stradling the bough with her tiny legs.
Amias arched a brow, lifting his head to glance up at her. "Don't get what?"
"Why did the Stitcher agree to giving the Nightingale more time?" Verity canted her head, her brows swooping downward into a scowl. "The Stitcher was the one who decided to save the Nightingale from the brink of death if she vowed to offer the Stitcher an alternate form, right?"
Amias couldn't help but grin as he leaned his back against the tree, giving a faint nod. "Yeah."
"Then the Stitcher should've ruled the day, and the Nightingale rule the night. Not the other way around."
"Verity, do you have something against the Nightingale?"
With an unintelligible mumble, Verity climbed down the branch, practically sliding off the oak. "I just think she wasn't being fair to the Stitcher. After all she gave to her, the Nightingale forced her to be trapped for so much longer. Why did the Stitcher agree to that kind of life?"
He got the feeling they weren't talking about the Stitcher and the Nightingale anymore. With a deep breath he closed the book, watching the golden engravings gleam against the deep-blue leather bound cover. Of course speaking of limited freedoms would irritate Verity, he just hadn't realized it soon enough. "In the end, Verity, the Stitcher decides to break their bond with the Nightingale."
"Really?" Verity's round blue eyes snapped to him, her lips parting into what could be the beginnings of a smile. "You mean, they find a way to separate?"
"Yes," he admitted, running his thumb over the cover. "You see, the Stitcher and the Nightingale were both magical creatures, ageless beings who possessed a power unlike any other. The Stitcher discovered a way to create her own form, a way to interact with the real world. And she broke her bond with the Nightingale, leaving them to part ways for all eternity."
Verity beamed, as if he'd given her the answers to her own problems. "Really?"
In all truth, no. Amias knew the story of the Stitcher and the Nightingale, and the Stitcher had decided to succumb to a formless fate for the rest of her life after breaking their bond and killing the Nightingale in the process. It wasn't a story of hope, but a lesson to those to never make deals they didn't understand. But seeing that look on her face—he couldn't tell her what really happened.
He gave a small nod, tucking the book beneath his arm. "We should head inside now, Emmaline might notice we're missing."
There was a flash of disappointment on her face, but she didn't complain, didn't ask for more time. He'd given her what he could, and even being so young, Verity understood that.
He just wished he could give her more.