Mari made her way back to her small cabin, brows furrowed and lips tightly pressed together in contemplation. The gentle swaying of the steamship brought a sense of ease, like the soothing motion of a rocking chair.

She pulled a bell rope, and a few moments later a steward appeared at her cabin door.

"You rang, ma'am?" The young man seemed nervous.

"I'd like a pot of tea, if it's not too late?" She handed him a few coins, and he seemed to deflate, although whether in relief or disappointment wasn't exactly clear.

"Only that? Sure thing." He hesitated a moment, glancing around her cabin.

"Is that not enough?" she asked, nodding towards the coins in his hand.

He started a bit. "Oh! Sorry - it's the silliest thing, ma'am. Some of the crew, that is to say, some of the more unserious folks, was babbling some nonsense about you being, well, a bad sort? And I was hoping to set them straight that t'weren't nothing odd or suspicious to be seen."

"Ah," she said. "Yes, I think I know what you mean. I have this personal ward." She lifted the shawl she'd been wearing since boarding the ship. "Traveling alone, I worry about my safety. But the ward gets a bit excitable in crowds, and sometimes creates the most outlandish protective illusions. Why, it had one poor gentleman believing I was a grindylow!" They were a popular storybook monster, used to convince children to avoid mill ponds and riverbeds.

The steward laughed, probably imagining one of her fellow passengers scrambling away from a harmless middle-aged woman in fear.

"Oh, well, that explains it, then." He smiled at her, curiosity mostly assuaged. "Then I'm glad I mentioned it. Now I can let folks know they've nothing to fear. I apologize if your service has been unsatisfactory, ma'am. Some crew are a superstitious lot."

"Not to worry," she said. "I haven't been aboard long enough to notice. But - I would like that tea, if you don't mind?"

"Right!" he started, as if just now recalling he had a job that wasn't investigating juicy, fantastical rumors about unassuming female passengers. "Be right back!"

He turned on his heel and hurried off in the general direction of the galley. Mari shut the door behind her and leaned against it, lost in thought for a long moment before finally exhaling and sinking onto her bunk bed.

"That's going to be the problem you find, unless you decide to mess with some minds," a voice squawked from the porthole.

"Is there some spell that will convince you that you're not a poet?" she sighed.

"Probably, but then how will you know I'm not just telling you what you want to hear?" Alistair's feathers ruffled as he hopped down onto her bunk. "Besides, familiars are resistant to enchantment. It would be a waste of energy."

"Well, you're not wrong, on either account. Alistair, I'm not two days gone from Riverbend, and already dealing with the same old prejudices. I don't think a single soul has treated me like a normal person since Cedric skewered Kalifax!"

The bird cackled, "Because you're not a normal person! You're a sorceress. You could cross the kingdom just by thinking about it. Buying a steamship ticket instead doesn't change what you are."

"I don't want to be what I am!" Mari sputtered. "I didn't want it in the first place! I agreed to help Cedric one time, and ended up spending the rest of my life stuck doing it!"

She stomped her foot. Her warded wool cloak fell of the shelf where it had been folded neatly, onto the bunk next to Alistair.

Her magic-absorbing cloak. The same one she'd worn when they fought the necromancer. That cloak had withstood the entire force of Kalifax's power being thrown at it.

"Huh," she muttered.

"I don't like that look," Alister said, cocking his avian head suspiciously.

She leaned over and gathered the cloak in her arms. Wool was her natural medium. It would hold nearly any spell, probably for as long as she wanted. She sank down on the bunk bed, and closed her eyes.

"Tea service!" A bright and cheery voice startled her out of her reverie so abruptly she fell off the bunk.

"Are you alright ma'am?" The steward's muffled but concerned voice carried through the door.

"I'm fine! Just dropped... my boots? I mean, some books? My bag? My bag full of books!" She yelped, scrambling to her feet and waving frantically at Alistair to hide.

The raven narrowed his eyes and fluttered out the porthole.

She opened the door to see the steward holding a tea tray, looking worried.

"Oh, delightful!" she gasped, grabbing the tray. "I won't be needing anything else."

She slammed the door shut, interrupting the steward mid-sputter.

"Can't imagine why you wouldn't blend in," Alistair quietly grumbled, flying just outside. "Truly, you have a dizzying gift for subterfuge."

"Be quiet!" she hissed. "Do a patrol, and don't come back till morning."

"As you wish," the raven cawed, before swooping away.

Mari settled the tea tray on a bench next to the bunk, and poured herself a cup. It was strong black tea, and still hot.

Alistair was right. Changing her location wasn't going to change her situation.

The people of Riverbend were never going to see her as anything other than a figure of legend - the only difference was whether she was the hero or villain of the tale. She didn't want to have to prove she was worthy of the power she'd inherited all over again, to a whole new set of people.

If only she could go back to just being a simple yarn witch, and return to the modest magical gifts she'd had at birth.

But it wasn't that simple. Magic couldn't be created or destroyed. Carefully dispersing that much magic would take ages, and releasing it as wild magic could be disastrous. Someone had to carry the power Kalifax had accumulated, and frankly, she didn't trust anyone but herself to do it.

She looked at the cloak, and then looked at the enchanted carpetbag on the floor.

What if she could carry Kalifax's power, and maintain responsibility for it, without being the vessel for it?

It was risky. Imbuing any object with that much power was a dangerous proposition. Truly powerful magical artifacts were rare for a reason - the could be stolen, misused, or misfire and cause cataclysmic destruction. But she could just stash the power, temporarily, in the cloak. Then she could hide the cloak, temporarily, in the pocket dimension within her bag.

She could spend some time just being Marigold again. She could see what it would have been like, if she'd gotten to live as a different, simpler version of herself.

Even if it was two decades late, she could taste a little of the life she'd given up to save Riverbend.

Alistair was right. It was a terrible idea. So many things could go wrong.

But the idea of even spending a few weeks without the crushing weight of duty she'd been carrying was too tempting to resist.

Mari took a deep breath, her mind made up. She held the old gray cloak in her hands, feeling its familiar texture against her fingertips. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to do.

Closing her eyes, she visualized the immense power of the necromancer as a mass of red thread, a tangled ball of knots and twists. Each segment stolen when the necromancer had vanquished another mage, then bequeathed to her when he perished. She separated it painstakingly from the wispy green fibers of her own natural gifts. Then she began carefully spooling it out, from deep in her gut, through her heart, down her arms to the palm of her hands.

The hum of magic vibrated the air around her, and she concentrated on pushing the sorcerous energy into the cloak. She imagined it like silk thread, slipping between the stitches and sliding into the gaps of the fabric. Slowly, arduously, she pulled the foreign magic through her body, pouring it bit by bit into the warded cloak, which soaked it up like scarlet dye.

Mari collapsed onto her bunk bed, panting heavily. She wiped away the sweat from her brow and looked down at the cloak, now a deep vermillion. At last, every bit of stolen magic had been absorbed, trapped within the complex patterns of wards stitched into the garment. She felt exhausted and strangely light, as if she might float off the bunk like a feather.

She opened the carpetbag, and slipped the cloak into it, pushing it through the hole at the bottom into the pocket dimension. Then she snapped it closed, fastening the buckles across the top.

She picked up her tea cup, gulped it down in one long swallow, then set it down with a shaking hand. Wobbly, she stood up, leaned against the wall of the cabin, and bolted the door.

Then she crashed back into the bunk, and into the first deep and dreamless sleep she'd had in twenty years.

#

Miles away in Riverbend, a long line of merchants and laborers had started to form outside the Citadel with their daily litany of complaints. Inside, the Knight Commander was clutching a piece of foolscap as if crumpling it in his fist would erase the few words scribbled on it, and make them magically untrue.