Softening the Metal

The flare-up lasted for three weeks.

Julian couldn't return to the Manor; the stairs were too much for him, and Maren refused to let him out of her sight while his skin was still glittering with gold dust. He slept on her sofa.

It was a strange, quiet intimacy.

Maren learned the rhythm of the curse. In the mornings, Julian was stiff, his joints locking up like a rusted hinge. She would have to massage a salve of arnica and cayenne into his hands and knees to get him moving.

At first, he recoiled from her touch. He was used to people touching him only to take—to grab a coin, to shake on a deal, to steal a diamond tear.

"Relax," Maren commanded, working her thumbs into the marble-hard muscle of his shoulder. "You're tense as a bowstring."

"I'm dangerous," Julian muttered, his face pressed into a pillow. "If I bleed on you..."

"Then I'll have a jeweled scar. Very chic," Maren deadpanned.

She felt the muscle under her hands yield, just a fraction.

In the afternoons, when the pain receded, Julian tried to be useful. He was hopeless at magic, but he had a sharp mind. He reorganized her apothecary ledger, turning her chaotic scribbles into a streamlined inventory system.

"You're undercharging for the fever balm," Julian noted, tapping the book. "The ingredients cost you four coppers, but you sell for five. The margin is negligible."

"Mrs. Gable has six kids," Maren said, chopping carrots. "She pays what she can."

"You could expand," Julian pressed. "I could invest. We could bottle this. 'The Hedge Witch Reserve.' We’d make millions."

Maren put down the knife. She walked over to where he sat at the table. She placed her hands on the wood, leaning in.

"Julian," she said gently. "I don't want millions. I want enough. I have a warm roof. I have good soup. I have a neighbor who is currently not dying. That is enough."

Julian looked at her. His eyes were the color of polished amber. "I don't understand you. You have power. You could have more."

"Big things break," Maren said, gesturing around her cozy room. "Small things last. Look at you. You have everything, and you're falling apart."

Julian looked at his hand. The veins were tracing gold patterns under the skin. "I'm not falling apart, Maren. I'm solidifying. There's a difference."

That night, the pain was bad. Julian lay on the sofa, gasping. Maren sat on the floor beside him, reading aloud from a trashy romance novel to distract him.

He reached out, his hand heavy and cold, and covered hers.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Maren turned her hand over, interlacing her fingers with his. His skin felt like smoothing a stone found in a river—hard, but worn smooth by time.

"Go to sleep, Julian," she said softly.

He did. Maren stayed awake, holding his hand, wondering when the gold would finally stop moving and simply stay.