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A witch’s fate is in their hands, and the newcomer’s hands are shaky.
Her fingers grip her ill-fitted pen as if she never learned how to write at all. Every line she draws is clumsy, lopsided. Agott doesn’t need to adjust her assessment. She was right the first time: this is not someone worthy of learning even the basics of magic.
She’s nothing more than a short distraction. Agott cannot ignore her grating voice and stupid questions, even sitting on the other end of the room, but she knows they won’t be sharing for long. She’ll make sure of that.
*
A witch’s hands are never dirty, and Coco is completely muddy.
She throws her dirty, damp self at Agott, digs her fingers into her shoulders. There’s mud caked beneath her nails, staining Agott’s pristine cloak.
Magic is precise and beautiful, like the bird of light from Agott’s pen still lingering on her retinas. But Coco’s dirt is also proof of magic. The sand she leaves behind on Agott’s hands means she solved a problem with ink and a pen. It doesn’t make sense, so Agott shoves the thought away with a blink, like the damp girl in front of her.
*
A witch’s hands are always steady.
Coco doesn’t waver as she holds the sylph shoes out to Agott. She grips them like they’re precious, but not frightening, the way you’re supposed to handle a magic tool.
Agott takes the shoes. She’s not sure she holds them the same way. There’s a gaping chasm inside of her where the easy answers used to sit.
The sign Coco drew is far from perfect, but it is a sign. She’s not a witch, but her hands are clean, not the slightest shake. Agott cannot make sense of her. She could not even begin.
*
A witch’s hands are beautiful.
It’s something Agott strives for - a beautiful tool for a beautiful product. She has not achieved it. But Coco’s hands are beautiful.
Her skin glows in the lantern’s light, like her radiant smile. She’s still not perfectly in control, but her fingers hold her pen like they’re meant to. The magic she draws isn’t intricate, but it is beautiful, because it’s hers.
Agott expects the thought to sink heavily to the bottom of her stomach, for fear to grip her, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t frighten her in the slightest. It’s the opposite of fear.
*
Coco’s hand is dry, but her grip is strong. The callouses on her fingers tell Agott she knows the beauty of magic now, but she also knows its burden.
Not even a day ago, her hand was soft, and holding it made Agott’s heartbeat speed up in excitement and elation. The feeling has changed already. Her heart is steady and reliable in her chest. It doesn’t matter if it’s a witch’s hand or what either of them were supposed to be, what they turned out to be instead.
It’s just Coco’s hand, and there’s no hand she’d rather be holding.