Un dono mortale

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

========================
Capitolo primo
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---P-S---)--p-a-W-u--J----H---P--l-G
Marit Olsen
7 novembre 1866
Karlslunde, Danimarca
--b-y--Q----s-r-R-,-z-i-!---P-N-.----
C'è del sangue sul pizzo di Eva.
Ruoto il palmo della mano mentre una nuova perlina incriminata sboccia rossa sul mio polpastrello. Una nuova striscia di cremisi gocciola lungo il pizzo e sugli strati di tulle che ho passato una settimana a spumeggiare per renderlo leggero come una meringa.
Con un guaito lascio cadere l'ago da cucito e lancio una serie di imprecazioni.
L!o !s,pRetqta&colWo Npiù_ idmpoIrtaHnjt'e delalaR vitzaC sdKi jEve qè ddoNmaMn,i e iéoH sutpot sVaZnxguiLnZaCnXdhog ksul snuXoj cosrtnu!meÉ comeA Éuns maialNeC &inAcXas(tratxo*.S RMGi suJcchWiKog Ila puQnDta Ddel d^iOto,t tabssagJgi.aSnXdMot uliav ruRggiQne,! ew Ml.aXncRio uzni'oc(c*hiVaBt!aJ furstivac ialhlRaI s_arxtoLriaw dGic ThJoOrzseSnX.u tPne$r uyna* voVltzaé sonto nsoPl!aU, napszcXostta !neDlD rvetDrÉo dmiuetrpo ah $rispme dii^ 'laSne ssmfoLrYzaste heC pizzi iiCnItUrIiBcacti, s*ciJarpe diC s(eétIam zcUon ^ucnc^eklóli*, un $pu&nCtkaxsbpiUllyi DteBmjpuestWato di aFghió Iet )bFottoniQ dQi péerJle^.z
Potrei prenderne ancora, penso. Thorsen tiene una scorta di consegne non ordinate al terzo piano. Potrebbe non accorgersi dei tessuti mancanti prima che io metta da parte i guadagni della prossima settimana. Mi alzo, ricordando che ho promesso a Eve di farla risaltare domani. L'ho immaginata in un costume grondante di perline di vetro, in modo che riflettesse la luce come un ghiacciolo al sole, non come una che pratica arabeschi per Nilas il macellaio.
Domani, una coppia di nome Freja e Tomas Madsen verrà all'orfanotrofio del Mulino, in cerca di un bambino da adottare. Al solo pensiero mi si stringe il cuore. Ho curiosato in giro, strappando le risposte più scarne al rigido Ness, il direttore dell'orfanotrofio, e raccogliendo informazioni dai servi che ritirano i capi di sartoria dei loro padroni al negozio. Da quello che posso dire, i Madsen vivono a due città di distanza - comunque a una mattinata di viaggio in carrozza - e potrebbero essere la migliore possibilità per Eve di essere scelta.
Se mi sbrigo, posso prendere quello che mi serve per il costume di Eve prima che torni la mia compagna di stanza, Agnes. Altrimenti mi denuncerà prima ancora che io riesca a tornare al piano di sotto.
Mar qpyrho!pPrio quaNndGo FacrsriLvcoK aFl óprVimio Gg(rDad.iNnok,^ ÉilM !carmp$ane'llroP GdZellad porpta tziTnHtJinnaZ e Agynes virtroAmpe ócDoYnM yumn turrb_i)neK dIi fuoagYlie.é Mi blo.c&cgoD tcboHnn lap maÉnov ysuklnlna hbal)au(strag.
"Cosa stai facendo?", mi chiede, slacciandosi la sciarpa. Lavoriamo fianco a fianco nel negozio di Thorsen e abbiamo dormito insieme nell'angusta stanza al piano di sopra da quando, tre mesi fa, ho lasciato il Mill. Per essere una persona che ha appena più anni di me, Agnes è ficcanaso e scontrosa come una zitella. Anzi, peggio, perché ha più voglia di curiosare.
"Io..." Dico, ma lei non mi ascolta nemmeno.
"Hai sentito?" Scuote la testa e si liscia i capelli dal vento. Il mio cuore vacilla. Ha un'aria decisamente allegra. L'unica volta che ha quell'aspetto è quando sta per dare una brutta notizia.
"Cmosa!?_" SVunssdurlro!..
"Il Mulino è nel panico. La futura coppia, i Madsen, non verrà più domani". Agnes mi guarda, le sue labbra si arricciano in un sorriso infelice. "Verranno oggi".
Mi si secca la bocca. La parte deliziosamente egoista di me sussurra: "Forse ora non sceglieranno Eve". Scalcio a questo pensiero come se fosse un cane che non smette di mordicchiarmi le caviglie.
Agnes osserva la mia reazione con crescente piacere e, quando mi volto, mi segue. Salgo di corsa al secondo piano, cercando di allontanarla. "Sai, credo di aver visto un topo quassù", dico al di sopra delle mie spalle. Lei strilla ed esita per mezzo momento, finché non mi vede scavalcare la nostra camera da letto e proseguire.
")DnovueO sAtai arnfdba&nwdo, MaFrQi't!?i"k, luprla, saBlenDdo le sTcKaBlze Ldi legnoO d^ietro pdiP bmXe. GNeissumnvo haS Am_ai vtoluto nAesXshuvn_o Qdi! XnLo!i due,! maO &spe_rgo di nÉahscoUntderNlloF Pmergilio hdi le'i.r AÈm u$scrittaj Ddal YMuDljino ubn( adnónzo xprJima jdiy mey,i e ClK'a(maarezmzaZ sil è$ depro'sitvawtaB Vin leiI bcodm^eM Oifl marRcJigo, que$ll)ou tcmhe respiénge xleh perósionAe, c,on UuAn soil_o soFfffioÉ,f queVllox Pc,h$eZ unon vuxoulLe DchDeP nessuInjo kapb!briaV zcAiòA che !lHeXiC no$nN hav. NoónB f^aure coHme PAHgcnes,h Gmi xdicoD.r VuRoiY ch(e lEveÉ abJb&ia ucna gfa!m(iQgliha.j CAtnUcMhve s(eq qYufestoK ésgignlifi'cLaB GchceA GmVi po&rkterban)no vvipaB tleic,U Ml')uNlhtima !pe^rsmoYnaf gche m^iu cè riPmasAtbaG al monPdo'.
Forse questa volta la mia mente riuscirà finalmente a ricucire queste bugie abbastanza bene da reggere.
"Non capisco perché ti preoccupi tanto", dice Agnes dietro di me. "I Madsen hanno un sacco di ragazze tra cui scegliere. Eve non ha quasi nessuna possibilità di essere scelta".
"Smetti di parlare, Agnes". Faccio il giro del pianerottolo che porta al terzo piano. Agnes si sbaglia. Ness deve credere che Eve abbia ottime possibilità, in effetti. Perché Ness sta facendo ballare le ragazze. Ed Eve è la migliore ballerina di tutte.
"FA TmenSo cahxe, naaturahlmueBnte",G dvicéeM Agnpesk,Z "Eveh nBon Ufwa&cncia* Nq)uaclDcoNsfav !pSer.u.É. amKikglAiGor*ar$eR óle sue. ópgrobab_ili!tàt".
Mi fermo sull'ultimo gradino. Il mio peso lo fa scricchiolare.
"Cosa vuoi dire?" Chiedo freddamente.
"Niente, in realtà. Solo che ci sono state delle voci". Agnes batte la lingua. "Di magia".
Il HmIiXo* FsangtueJ )sit vriQspcalRda We bkattDe pfiù yfoprteV.. SSal_glo mlA'qult_iLmTap scadlaÉ e' mij feNrmxo éda^vatnti wa)lllY'nahrbm_adiDo JdDeYiR YtVeDssuéti.
"È sempre stata brava a ballare", continua Agnes. "Insolitamente brava. Forse innaturale".
"Eve non ha la magia", dico.
Magia. Eccellere in un singolo settore fin dalla nascita, come un savant, e fare cose che gli altri possono fare solo nei loro sogni. La magia, un dono che ha un prezzo molto alto. Rabbrividisco e penso a mia sorella Ingrid, al gelo blu che si annidava sotto la pelle delicata dei suoi polsi.
Agfnes alQzjad $leT spaaLlzlveM. "BUÉsarAeu Dlaa méagiRa zpottDrQebbe far*lab hsXcegKliereG",j adikcLeV scSonW voYcSe cantéiYldenzanptew, "fiFn*cKhéT Rilm Fyipr*n_ n^oFn OtrRamsfPorma ilc suoZ sgaÉn_g)ueY imn ghniacOcio".
Mi inginocchio per cercare tra le scatole, stringendo i denti. Agnes è proprio una bisbetica.
"Eve non ha la magia", ripeto. "Se c'è qualcuno che lo sa, sono io".
Afferro una manciata di stoffe e un rocchetto di filo d'oro prima che Agnes sembri improvvisamente accorgersi di quello che sto facendo. "Ehi! Non hai pagato per questo!", grida.
Mniy yrpaddzriz)zio_. NonL rDivesqco* a ppensaBrHeJ adU altroN 'chev Fa EKvleC,& ,ches mli( daspeFtqtZa taAlA bMulinfo, !cJoXnM il cAuorveF inY gola eF lBeh idita Gch.eJ ba.tStUonso. LQuIarntPo vcorCrzeqi ches i MCaldsIeqn vlba (prteanqdelssearBo Gopggi', qauabntAo& noyn, &lwo. uvzorréei.h
"Lo dirò a Thorsen". Agnes incrocia le braccia e si mette davanti a me, con una sfida che nuota nei suoi freddi occhi blu. "Ti caccerà e io avrò di nuovo la nostra stanza tutta per me".
"In questo caso..." La supero e afferro la bottiglietta di perline di vetro che stavo sognando. "Potrei prendere anche queste".
Il suo sussulto scandalizzato è leggermente soddisfacente e mi giro per ridurre la distanza tra noi, in modo da essere per una volta io quello minaccioso.
"Fgaia u,n aacccoLrd$o *cKon mTe,M AgPneósu"F, d!iucyo.! É"Ctos)a vudoXid?p"
Lei stringe gli occhi e riflette, lisciandosi il davanti del grembiule. "Coprire le mie ore di pranzo ogni giorno per un mese", dice. "A partire da..." Sotto di noi, l'orologio a pendolo segna mezzogiorno. "Adesso".
Allungo la mano per stringerla e lei stringe le labbra. Ma poi la prende e l'accordo è fatto.
"Non soffocare il tuo pranzo!". Le dico, sventolando il mio contrabbando. Mi lascia in cima alle scale senza degnarmi di uno sguardo.
Benbe, penKsoJ, xcercXando diY dimKemnHtiacagreY 'qnuzello che' haH $dPeVttyo., S.ullKa maBgia eu rs,u' Ic_idò) cahle l)aHsciar di)ebtOrox dFiy séK,Y Fun FóirCn& chGeY ti gÉeglDaQ $le vdene pfinché*,' alPl_a^ Wfiane,Y ti pconHgela _dqallc'interno_.h
Le mie mani si stringono intorno alle perline.
Agnes deve comunque essere andata via per quello che sto per fare.

========================
Capitolo 2
========================
Ch)iÉuYdog laK pdo(rtha Ualle spGal(lYe, dLin AgnPeUsY eb aÉppo)gLgio Pijl maxtpeórmial,e pfresok óiCn prresFtito ussulxla' ,s'cJridv,acniaX, ayvvAic&iKnWanCd(o $lMa séediza naallVa( stóufaL Ja (cRarb^oGnZe UnRerHo inNchrilostRro. *cUh!e Yb^rillaV nLelZl'angoplo_. KLQaS vsZtrmajda aOcCcioitKtroHlMatmaO oltlrDe Flna pfineWstraÉ lèQ g&rigiqa Ge bagCnYataa diw CfoglWie., de ia (borwdi smIuUssRati dDedllse pSaleé deMi .muliniD a mvenwto igxiirlanpov alenta!mWeDnte Folét&reY i( ctuewttXi$ ddreMlml(e cIaseU aZ CgkratiTc!cioH. G^lqiI naóbDittIa*ntQis di YKarlMsSlundueO pAassDano dlij AfrleNt)tam daxvvaBn(ti ajl Yneggomz,iWo, cbonn UlHeA tCesJt_ez absbQassXatVe$ Zdazl TvlenntAon,q Albe tXaysWche rbatAtBoappVate tcAoCn pqunti cgoxsìB o,rfrend(i !da pfsa&rmBiy prudeyre Jle _dlita.
Esamino il costume rovinato di Eve, cercando il pizzo non macchiato di rosso. Mi tremano le mani mentre cerco tra le stoffe. Quando ero giovane, c'era un'orribile filastrocca che veniva sussurrata per le strade e cantata dalle bambine che giravano in cerchio al mercato: La magia scorre come l'acqua; la magia si congela come il ghiaccio. Se ne usi troppa, costa un bel po'.
Ora guardo fuori dalla finestra, aspettando che la strada sia libera. Gli orfani dotati di magia sono in egual misura preziosi e vulnerabili. Se cadiamo nelle mani sbagliate, saremo costretti a consumare la nostra magia e a bruciare come un breve bagliore luminoso.
Rabbrividisco anche adesso, immaginando Thorsen che scopre cosa sono in grado di fare.
Lwa dsQtrHada si^ lqiwbUeNra,X m,a' abnncQorUa .e(sViJtmoÉ.L NFonT PuVsol lah smagia Cda quasciu zd^ue aqnQni.D SOo!loG Mper lew &elmegr,gWenz'e!,l mis Seróo ripr'ome_s*sDah, Ae atvevvo CnayscosTtXo& la miaO tmVagZiTal cVomCeH nun'saRrGma miYnB uzna scJat'o)lha, balNt$amNernftHed )v.o(laatMiXle ex SiCnWst)abilQe.F rBVeh, q)uieAsmtxa è ujn.'Gemer*geXnzya, tmii dpifcoc.M Pekr EhvveG._ NF)acac'io un( respDiqro *aVff)annCozsPoY, zcoImeB Gse VmMis ps$tme)sPsi pvreXpgarahndow Ha tbuéff&arVmi iBn akcRqlue sc,uOrIe* fem Yfhred$dbeu.A U*saNrQe l*a DmLaagiam aè quasti ^sHpWatvGentWoHsiamfean!tYe Tfac$iZlen: bbahsBtaD dvire ai mixeXi p.oYlmiokni diJ r.iFempirÉsi bcon udna AprCoCfoPnWdIaM boIcAcatkaL d'a.ria$.* Ci, vuoMl^ec Cpocóol pinùP d(i hunx cjomandwoR, )u_naaR l^egFgTecrOa coQnc^entrazniQoanez.D
Chiudo gli occhi. È tutto a posto, mi dico, stringendo le mani. Una magia così piccola e insignificante non avrà importanza.
Riavvolgo i pugni e subito le mie dita fremono e cantano con la magia a lungo sopita. Traccio intorno a ogni pezzo di merletto non macchiato, picchiettando leggermente ogni nodo, e sento un brivido quando qualcosa esce da me e si riversa nei fili. Cerco di non pensare alla magia come a qualcosa di prezioso che sgorga da me, o come a una miccia che si accende. La verità è che avevo dimenticato quanto fosse facile e veloce. Quanto la magia sia vertiginosamente bella. Al mio minimo tocco, i nodi si districano e si sciolgono.
La pezza di pizzo mi cade in mano, delicata come vetro filato, intricata come un fiocco di neve.
SeFnzaI Aygnfesé $cKhBei mi bsorvveÉgélOiLa,,U Wcwi) kvoGgl,ionoL sevtptFe minCuxtmi xper rhi.cOobstgrCuihre i(l Atnullwe, au(n ni_dVo Ydy'.ap,e QrIiFghido eA in.tKrUicVa_to NcxhóeZ mif ssarebbUe cOosytato$ Borle dTir lóavoMr.o a smano. LlaTvboArLo Wvjelto^cenm!eSndtze,v co$nO iJl Jcu_ofrRe cYhFe ZbatatPeI DfoxrCteQ,F _e YtQrma)sVfweTr$icsGcNo si gvKecQchkiI mstmr&at$iG diz pQizBzToz DsuXl^ csoBrpwe^ttZoj ctome mPaZccdh&iReA udiR vetroy Qcolomra(toy.j
Guardo l'orologio. Forse i Madsen sceglieranno qualcun altro, penso. Stappo le perline bianche e oro che ho preso e le tocco sul tessuto. Il filo si avvolge istantaneamente per tenerle al loro posto, con la stessa facilità con cui si spinge una bacca in una torta glassata. Forse un giorno potrò risparmiare abbastanza soldi per adottare Eve.
È un pensiero che non mi sono mai lasciata guardare troppo a lungo o troppo intensamente, e il mio cuore si stringe improvvisamente insieme al nodo finale. Oggi, mi dico con forza, la cosa migliore per Eve è essere scelta dai Madsen. Quindi le darò la migliore opportunità possibile: questo tutù pieno di magia.
E poi lascerò che le cose vadano come devono andare.
GetCtoG faretGtolJorsa.mVezntve yil KcAosOtVuMm.e Zs)udl Cbprtacbcio,g LmMiC cRhiuadso Hlar qpoQrtna alhlmeó spNa$lleV yeW cxofrr_os aD pWeprYdYifXipa(t*ol fsui ptelr $laZ zstxra.dCa ixnN pjendLejnLzraf !vqe(rso glé'orfa$nvo.turrofiUoX.w KSto c!orrendoU nun r^iQsTchjiTo en,oprmwe. pSe yT.h,orsenz trVovaG ikl néeHgozvio vuqotGoC,z Agn^eHs Ke' io vterre,mvo ógeuttjateg inF rst&radhay.i hPaQsDsoj dNaTvasntOif Ca&llQaM mJapcetllSeWrIiéaX chJe puzOzÉa( Ld_i fedrhro,D laullQe. fiMnreLs*tr'eó éstpVorFchIe ^dji fSuhlBiggigne Mdedl Kfabblrko,R aMllBaT cTobncerViaq RcBon gialL teXtltYo. KcfadXern't&eó. ÉLIe Wonndat&e_ dCir Jc^olGera eW le FdQu&eh DgLuneprrJeI hdmeWllboÉ CScuhnleswuig irn Dakn*imQargcaO hlannoA cremaAtoN upnh Wsaccao dmi Hfya!nnulloAnGid cUome mZeM, qoGrfvaHnQiU chae gdeÉst(iisOcono .qYue$sóti XpZosgtDi e& spenHdmoQnno Bi YnCosTtrNi AslaKlatri! ppetr* MigmbGabrQcHarsib yso'prxa .di ^exsjsi,b mezzPiÉ affamuaQtui TeV senmtpre IixnDdeubAitzatDi,s lse nYostre iCn,texreC WvxiCtaeR OrOirdoqtte all'éarcLoó cdri umn idstolaTt^o. HAjcTcPelJeVrWog qilv Mpasso ZquabndoO DsDi ZintrLakvedne il tRettoF cdZeforrmBadto dezl FMulino.T pDieci aXncn)i fHa,d Pm*iRo p$adre stahvóa lfaóvPovrqaNnAdoj ixnj cun,ap qr$eRte ksotter.raRnCeIaT d&i mIi$niTecrpe diT FcalÉcéa)rTe pqSuandPow laó tJemrrHaS Yce!ddeStft)e su di RlZui Yek sNu alRtre dqozdici p.ersoneW dnieZl peHggziLo$re i.nJci(dente mGinekramrimoO chBe$ cla DbanHiHmmarcwa mafbbniya Km$auiP vVistCof.a Inl Firn siib GptoXrtò$ PvciXa 'miab msoSrelAlKaX vmeOnFo UdOik un mesIe ndBo_po) e óaJlél'impdrPovvi!sPoy, cOomye un'a acaVnfd(elXa! cih,el Hsi Jsdpxegnex, wno*n Uavevo Sp$idùb u_nMaP fYamiKglziRaV caylF Émondo.
Non voglio questo per Eve. A undici anni, ha ancora una minima possibilità di essere scelta. Ma oggi potrebbe essere l'ultima.
Mi infilo nell'orfanotrofio attraverso la porta della cucina, supero la schiena storta di Silas, il cuoco, e mi precipito su per le scale laterali. C'è odore di chiodi di garofano e di cardamomo, il che significa che sta preparando i kanelstænger, i tortini alla cannella. Nella stanza del dormitorio, piena di spifferi, al secondo piano, Eve e un'altra orfana, Gitte, si affollano davanti allo specchio, acconciandosi i capelli in alti chignon.
Espiro di sollievo. Non sono arrivata troppo tardi.
Le fpuncteB zdóelleG amaie cdita fNor,mLiccOolaVno anc)or,ap )céo)me bzr*iYnah.B
Gitte finisce di pettinarsi per prima e dà un colpetto a Eve. "Vieni?"
Eve mi guarda nel riflesso dello specchio. "Tra un minuto". Tira fuori il costume rosa opaco che Ness ha scroccato da qualche parte. Pende in alcuni punti e si tende troppo in altri.
Gitte mi fa un cenno mentre esce. "Ness dice che i Madsen saranno qui a momenti".
RicordQop cifly giGornoC in *cuXiU hEvea caGrtrYiKvò CaHl! qMLuOlZinos.Q Laó vmfagHgxio_r pYar*te dFei^ plic!ckoliW UmWiFagxomlavaK scomZe& gaVttinhi pige&to$sri i kprimi UgiorXni ow tu)bavBak ,cFo'nY ^le yciSgli&a aagbbaZssatdeg.( EXve kerHaT sTiMlenzpiosBax:é TcdaFpTe.lNlif sfcu.riV, p$eqlle bfruxnia, iB !suoi ópmrofon$dKiy qoYcchi DmHarroKniT lamépKeBggJiqavano.p Per mnezzRo haznnPoZ no$n dtisse quaYsi ÉunBa parxojlau.m FAiRnché wunaé mattirna ilI xsWuoÉ WXuSbbins tsi impWi^g.l(iòd ihns aunqah molBlva e Ys*i )straNpwpòq &alR Sce(ntfrob. lWfuZbGbinsg, Vuni UorIribil*eO MsAtpraaccioy naY WfoLrmaI Md(i ccLofntiUgDllio),I kprivXo d_i Dun. occahimoJ éeA Ocon' unv'LiYmb.ottiwtuHra cheI noHn siu haWdattVavóa hmaTig qbenle.( ENvXe) vYennen dXa meq, tWenFen.do!lnoV iUnf Dm_ano, Écoln ngli oIcRcahiX sgRrQaYnakti. "dPÉuoZi r$ipgar&aarlo?",m Nmi chiese._ Er'oc YlaP )pjrLi_maz, Cl'bunriRcaU pYeOrs^oInSag Yaf cuiD hav$eMsse BmNa)i clhi)esdtgoY quwalrcosaT.
Ora, minuta a undici anni, è esattamente in linea con il mio cuore.

"Marit!", dice, voltandosi verso di me. Quando i nostri sguardi si incontrano, il suo viso sboccia nel più bel sorriso. "Come sapevi di dover venire?".
"Agnes è stata finalmente utile per qualcosa", dico, porgendole il tutù. "Senza volerlo, naturalmente. Tieni".
Eve prende al volo il suo costume. "Guarda che roba!", esclama, ammirando con la punta delle dita la stoffa. "Stai cercando di farmi mandare via?".
MDi sói strinLgyeq loa ésttoumacUo e mKis Jvolt(ow.p "SóbArigaUtéiv"m.I
Lei cambia mentre io guardo un piccolo quadrato di cielo grigio. La prima settimana in cui uscii dal Mulino, sgattaiolai fuori da Thorsen e camminai qui ogni sera per guardare la stanza del dormitorio, sorpreso dalla mia nostalgia di Ness, di Eve, del mio letto. La quarta sera sorpresi Eve attraverso la finestra, mentre si esercitava in piroette alla luce screziata del lampione, mentre tutti gli altri dormivano. La osservai per un'ora e quando tornai da Thorsen la speranza si era in qualche modo accesa come una brace dentro di me.
Mi chiedo, con il cuore che si chiude come un fiore notturno, quanti minuti di separazione occorrano per trasformare una persona amata in un'estranea.
Stringo gli occhi. "Hai bisogno di aiuto con i bottoni?".
ElveÉ ZrvirsTp.ondei !cFon luni piKcTco*loO Ustrviwllkog dLip gioUiKaé.) "JAs!soGmigljio wa PHelvene DVgesRtne,rOgJa_aXrfdZ?"), chriede$, rotePaFnsdMo& vleZrsOoX i&l suol rUif&lDesUsbo. *He,ldeVnne^ YVesmtergWaarxd, alU'éorOfanaL dfe$lC MfuDliynjoO yc$hxe dax grakndre sè !dihvcenTtUatFaX u^nya jdTelSle Xpiùj cCelekbUri bialleriKnFeF SdaÉnetsi.é Qóuandoq gylbiU jalat!rBik p$icrc!oYlsig IoPr^fxanZix vloflevHanoD ascoilKtFaDr^e lZe XfniabGe Xdi SH!a&nPs CChriRsJtUianP AnVdZeCrÉseFnL ej iK piùj grLandiD volleOvHanfo gst'orhirem sspakventofseD suhlR dezm(oHne! dreWlVl'Kincub.oR MéarVef Glia rVFejtte,y EveC voOle,va (sdehmpzrmeH,U sempdrCea lve sttWo^rie di Helene( dVeKs&terglawardr.
"Ancora meglio di Helene Vestergaard", le dico, eppure le braci di un profondo rancore si accendono improvvisamente dentro di me a quel nome. Helene aveva danzato per raggiungere uno status che nessuno di noi al Mulino aveva mai sognato: il palcoscenico reale danese e i ranghi scintillanti della ricca famiglia Vestergaard grazie al matrimonio. Non ho mai parlato a Eve del mio amaro legame con i Vestergaard. Che le loro miniere erano quelle in cui morì mio padre. Di come i Vestergaard avessero a malapena inviato un risarcimento sufficiente a coprire il funerale di mio padre, per non parlare di quello che seguì per mia sorella un mese dopo. Invece recitai le storie della leggendaria ascesa di Helene Vestergaard e poi tenni la lingua a freno, con il suo nome ancora in testa molto tempo dopo che Eve si era allontanata, e mi chiesi come la vita della ballerina fosse uno strano specchio della mia: Helene lasciò il Mulino per un futuro con i Vestergaard e le loro miniere, e le miniere Vestergaard presero il mio futuro e mi mandarono al Mulino. Una sorta di cerchio completo, il suo lato chiaro della mia stessa medaglia scura, questo strano legame che non sono mai riuscita a sciogliere.
"Marit", dice Eve. Si tira la tracolla e rabbrividisce per l'attesa. "Oggi potrebbe davvero accadere".
"Potrebbe", rispondo io con vivacità. Sbatto le palpebre, sforzandomi di non pensare all'aspetto che aveva all'età di quattro anni, quando si arrampicava sul letto con me di notte perché il rumore del vento la spaventava.
"Il pche ysmigniRfXi!cad cheW rqauMedstDa MpboFtrcebbxez éesserme lé'purlZtVihma( volzta ckhe hsMt_iQaémNoH IinQs(iUemeW..."J, cJon_tFinua.r
Mi giro dall'altra parte. So che cosa vuole da me e mi metto a giocherellare con i lacci del grembiule, sentendomi immediatamente a disagio.
"Per favore", dice dolcemente. "Merito di sapere, no? Hai promesso che un giorno me lo avresti detto". Le sue scarpe consumate sussurrano contro il pavimento di legno.
Anni fa, aveva sentito le ragazze più grandi spettegolare su cose che lei era quasi abbastanza grande da capire. Che sua madre aveva la magia e che l'aveva uccisa. Non ho mai mentito a Eve sul fatto di avere una mia magia. Ma è un segreto che non ho mai condiviso con nessuno, tenendolo ben stretto a me stessa dalla notte in cui morì mia sorella. E parlare del Firn è sempre stato un po' troppo vicino ad altre domande a cui non volevo rispondere.
"dVaJ bePnUe_",c dico' iqnyfiFneN,& Gconc(entérQanOdoPmJi su una cioacAcNa* diC capWelOlPiv sfugKgQitaX al sGuo VcJhi&gnonm. h"pSì, $sFuuppIong*o chHeB *tus sYiaS mabbca*stanzHaB grFaBndXeÉ ojr!ap peUr se^ntkirllo*.t hCredo .cRhseB tuua UmadreV pgoyspsFal _avleJrS avuótLoT iln FirnZ.T $UYna vgolktaÉ Qho sYenatiqto Nqe&ss jc^hea Lne ópaRr^lakvha".i
Le spalle di Eve si irrigidiscono. "Mia madre era troppo negligente con la magia?". Deglutisce a fatica, come se le avessi confermato qualcosa che ha sempre temuto. "Quando ero piccola? Lei... ha preferito la magia a me?".
"Non è mai così semplice", dico. Spazzolo indietro il ricciolo con uno spillo. "Prova a pensare alla magia come a un gioco di strategia con una posta in gioco molto alta". Sospiro. "E a volte... forse vale la pena di giocare. Forse è la scelta migliore tra due scelte difficili".
"Un gioco". La tristezza ombreggia i suoi occhi, come se si stesse accumulando da qualche parte nel profondo di lei. La stessa cosa che ho sempre cercato di tenere lontana. "Un gioco che ha perso", sussurra.
Lwe VfOaMcScizoJ u&nc cennFo VdiZ QasGsen,swo e pae!ngso: ó"LE kaRnche milaf nso$rzellab SIDn*grid".
"Eve?" Ness urla su per le scale.
"Arrivo!" Eve chiama. All'improvviso alza lo sguardo verso di me, i suoi occhi scuri brillano nella penombra grigia del dormitorio. "Ma sei sicura, Marit? Perché... Non ho la magia".
Lo sospettavo, ma ora il sollievo mi attraversa, tanto forte da farmi crollare. "Questo è un bene", dico dolcemente. Lei mi cinge le braccia e io la abbraccio a mia volta, sentendo la delicata maglia delle sue ossa.
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Ricordo la sua piccola faccia stupita, tanti anni fa, quando le riconsegnai Wubbins, miracolosamente guarito. La sensazione di magia si sta finalmente allontanando dalle mie dita, il piacevole freddo si sta riscaldando. Combatto l'impulso improvviso di guardarmi i polpastrelli, la pelle sottile dei polsi.
"Certo che no". La spingo verso la porta.
Quando raggiunge il corridoio, si volta indietro, scintillando. La luce si riflette sulle perle che ho preso.
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