Blackbird

Lucien doesn't remember going to bed but he wakes up to see his timber beam ceilings and pale sunshine streaming through his open window. He can hear the familiar drone of bees from the garden as they enjoy the swansong of the lavender patch that Marina, the pub owner's wife, helped Aunt Daisy to plant last April.

He sits up. Dried leaves fall from his hair and he looks down to see himself surrounded by acorns. Not the unripe, green handful that he managed to find in the forest either. These are the wholesome, brown ones to be had only during the height of harvest in the fall. The fawn glances over at his sudden movement, large, dark eyes watching him intently for a short while before it lowers its head and continues nibbling on its treat.

"Um." He picks up one of the acorns and sniffs at it. It smells nutty. Yup. Doesn't tell him a thing. Besides, Lucien's no expert at this. He's the sort to drink soured milk without noticing. "These don't have an expiry date or anything right? I'm guessing you'll be fine?"

The fawn doesn't reply, which is typical animal behaviour really. Lucien isn't sure why he was expecting it to engage him in meaningful conversation.

He considers pocketing a handful of the acorns for Sage to magic into that smooth, luxurious soup, the one with the porcini and the sour cream, but then he remembers halfway into his daydream that Sage is not around anymore. Marina's not an option either, too busy with her pub, and Aunt Daisy would just chuck them against his head and tell him to bug someone else. She has enough on her plate as it is.

He winds up taking just one of the acorns along, tossing it lightly into the air and catching it as he makes his way over to Graham's makeshift art studio. The place is nothing fancy, just an unused garden shed with barely enough room for a dangling light bulb and a rickety easel. But it's the paintings cramped onto every inch of the walls that turn it into a special kind of haven for Lucien.

Castles and pirate ships. Knights and magic carpets. Genies and dragons. They come to life in vibrant splashes of colour. Graham favours shades in his artwork that Lucien can't name. Not green, not exactly, but gleaming green gold like the ripest of bell-shaped pears. Not blue, not exactly, but foaming blues and blacks and whites like the ocean during a thunderstorm. They're breath-taking creations. Lucien doesn't need a real eye for art to know that if there really were someone up there in the sky creating people, then Graham was made out of genius. His talents are wasted in the village, should have gone to one of those fancy art schools in the city. He'd be showing off his work in those glass exhibition halls Lucien's only seen on telly adverts, Lucien's certain of it. But Graham won't leave. He has chosen to stay behind for the pretty girl in a lilac shawl, waiting for him in a wheelchair every evening at the end of the foxglove lane.

Catherine's the reason why Graham's still here, listening carefully to Lucien's latest story and painting the castle Lucien describes in hazy, ponderous strokes.

"Looks like something out of Beauty and the Beast," Lucien comments when he's done.

Scratching his chin, Graham squints critically at his new masterpiece. "You're the one who imagined it."

"Did not. I told you, I was there! But then I woke up and…I got all this stuff." Lucien holds the acorn up against the weak light. If he angles it just so, it's almost like a solar eclipse.

"Yeah, well. If you ever find yourself in a creepy magic castle again, maybe try not to eat the creepy magic food?"

Lucien grins. "But where's the fun in that?" he says.

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Sometime around eleven in the morning, at a rather unremarkable ten fifty-seven, to be precise, the castle reappears. Lucien doesn't see the exact second the ruins morph, preoccupied as he is with skipping stones across the still waters of the lake. The grey skies open up out of the blue. He straightens to his feet, brushing the muggy August shower from his eyelashes and—ah, there it is. Half shrouded in fog and straight out of a fairy tale.

He spits out the blade of grass dangling from his lips and treks up the hill. The castle is why he's been waiting here all morning, restless and lonely, chasing dragonflies and braiding flowers. He could have dragged Graham along, or maybe Robin if she weren't teaching, but something in his heart told him that the castle wouldn't reveal itself if he did.

The fog thickens. Lucien can't see the poppies underfoot anymore. He can't see much of anything, actually, which is why he nearly stumbles over the small gate that appears in front of him. It's no taller than his waist, and the lone blackbird perched upon it looks at him askance. The fence that flanks the gate is blanketed by drooping golden rain blossoms. He's seen the same plants down in the village too, but those are soft yellow and nothing like this, like each petal might be worth a small fortune.

He reaches out a finger to prod at the closest cluster. It shudders against his touch and he thinks he hears an echo of childlike laughter.

"Don't disturb them. They're protecting the heart wood."

Lucien's head jerks up at the unexpected voice. Just across the fence stands a man where no one stood just a second ago. He's tall, much taller than Lucien. Somewhat slender, although this is hard to tell when he's swathed in an out-of-season coat. It's made of a bizarre, fluttery material that Lucien can't describe, its edges curling like dark smoke to blend into the tendrils of fog. Its lapels remind Lucien of the dapper gentlemen on those gothic period films that Aunt Daisy likes to watch in the slow afternoons. His hair is dark but not the way Lucien's is, like it has been coloured in with one of the complicated paints on Graham's palette, the shade of the evening sky just as twilight dies.

"What's heart wood?" Lucien asks.

The man frowns. "What does it sound like?"

It sounds odd, Lucien thinks. "It sounds like wood that's made of hearts?"

The man scoffs. "All things are made of hearts," he says, solemn like he's citing empiric knowledge and not a load of hogwash. He flicks a sleeve at the flowers, and they part to reveal the fence underneath, made of a polished violet-brown wood. Lucien catches a glimpse of his hand and sees long, elegant fingers covered with stark swirling symbols.

"Are you a magician?"

"What does it look like?"

Lucien nods. The man must be. It's raining everywhere but on him. "You're a sort of magic, at least. So's this place. Is this your house?"

"…it is now." The man pauses. "You're very calm. About the magic."

Lucien chuckles. "I do look calm, don't I? I'm actually really not but my aunt taught me that it's not polite to gawk at others." He cranes his neck to try and see past the man's shoulders. "Can I go in? I've decided that I like it here!"

Before the man can reply, the latch flips and the gate flies open with enthusiastic fanfare. Lucien thanks it for the trumpeting serenade, then looks back up at the man, who is staring at the gate in consternation.

"Didn't your aunt also mention that it's not polite to invite yourself into the houses of strangers?"

"Oh, that? No, that she calls dangerous." Lucien says flippantly. "So…can I come in?" He bounces on the balls of his feet, eager and expectant.

'...I suppose,' the man mutters.