Clover Mccurdy is a witch. She originates from a long line of the spell-casters, the dream meddlers. Truth changers. But she uses her powers for good, creating remedies to cure the injured, the broken. And then she invents the unimaginable. The cure for death. She hides it, soaked in the four leaves of a clover, given to her by her grandmother. Her power in chemistry has formed a fault in biology. History changed forever. No one can know...but it's too late.


1. Both sides of the truth,

I sit at the breakfast table, surrounded by silence. I quietly butter some bread, freshly cut from the loaf. It crumbles under the knife's firm touch. I can see my reflection; a girl, hair as dark as night, eyes as green as the magic within it. Witch. My mother sits opposite me. "Clover" she says, the akward atmosphere tender, her voice certain.   "Yes mother?", I look up from my bread. She diverts her gaze from mine. The room is dimly lit, a candle melting away in the centre of the wooden table. A stern board covers the window, diverting the early morning light out, concealing the darkness in. It projects mystery, though it was created only to sheild us from their suspition.

She touches my hand, her palm's touch warm, her net sleeves baggy, their material trailing into my freshly buttered meal. She chokes up, "I have to go, you know why don't you, your a clever girl". I force myself to look at her, her face is hidden by a collausel of black hair strands. Mystery, it was in our genes. Mystery so strong that you were ushered to need to know more, urged to discover what lay behind those emerald eyes. I would tell them before it was too late if I were forbided to do so. I would tell them that it was the truth. The real truth. Spell-binding power, so dark that it could indeed connect life with death. I would tell them the truth about the truth.

"When do you leave?", I ask, but of course I know when.   "Today", she replies, I hoped that it wasn't true, but I had known all along. "You shall help me pack", she tells me, and I nod my head in an agreeing motion. She lifts her free hand toward my chin, pinching it between her right forefinger and thumb. Staring at me, inhaling my looks one last time. "You could just take a mirror", I smile trying to lighten the mood.

Her hand becomes shaky, trembling near my face. She puts it down. Her lip qivering, she backs away, standing from her old wooden stool. Mother's stool. That would always be her place at the table seated for four. Would always be her place, opposite me. She was still staring. She forces her thin lips into a proud smile, leaving the dark kitchen and closing the door behind her. My shoulders are stern, my back straight, frozen, unmoved. I remian seated, I hadn't been excused yet. I had the feeling that I would no longer need to be.


I hover at the foot of the large staircase uneasily. This dark house would seem eerie alone. It already felt as if there was more air compacted between these walls than was needed for two people. I was destined to feel empty. I stare at the door, it looked the same as it always had, a cool brown exterior, a hard secure surface. Very much capable for its uses, it had seen all it had needed to, had one thing that I didn't. A closed history. I had never seen what it looked like when you turned the large bronze knocker, hadn't seen the clear blue sky. But I could just as easily imagine it.

That oak passageway had though, had seen the light of the world, the seasons, the passing people. It had seen both sides of the truth, each way it faced, every way you looked at it. It was the only one that had ever seen the whole truth, the only one that had never faced a secret in its course.

My ear's senses are suddenly alerted by the sound of tiptoed footsteps. Silenced by their owner. My mother. She pauses one step to the bottom. When I look up at her I can see only plainness reflected in her expression. What are you thinking? I wonder. She never told me that. No matter how much I matured, no matter how much I already knew. I knew I did not know everything. She had lots of secrets, and that seemed to be her constant most sacred. It was unpredictable.

She spoke in the same bland tone as we all did, wore the same usually simple expression as expected. Though not before at breakfast, that was what starteld me deeply.  It was an example, a standerd set by our ancestors, the final being grandmother, and we had both ignord it. Though even when grandmother left us we never freed ourselves from our bond to this world. It wasn't so easily broken. But soon I would have the chance to try and break it.

She leans towards me, gently kissing the top of my head. I would have the chance to cry later, would have the chance to think clearly then. But now, I would not ruin this moment, it would be my final memory of her, the one that I would remember forever. We stay like that for moments that seem like eternity, and then she breaks apart. The moment was over.

That was the most emotion that she had ever shown me, the first time that she had ever kissed me, even goodnight. Though the distance was familiar, this sentiment, even though it felt special, made it seem like the end. She makes her way to the door, her long skirt layers trailing behind her as she went. I did not realize that she would be leaving this early, though I did not honestly expect any different either. I had not even helped her pack her bags, as I had agreed. And now I longed for those few extra minuites.

There was a large case in her hands, carring clothes and toiletries presumably. She would not need any spell books where she was going. She had left herself behind. We glance at eachother, staring through eachothers looks, beneath our dark hair and seeping in to the others mind. "Did you pack a mirror?", I whisper, and she nods gently, her eyes gleaming. I could not cry, I remind myself, and once more I wonder, what are you thinking? Are you preventing yourself from crying too? 

I feel angry almost, why now? But it was indeed this or never, and I wish it was never but she had her own reasons for going. For leaving me. She places her hand to the door nob, twisting it, and suddenly even more air was added to the large atmosphere. But this air was fresh and cool. A new type of air. Needed, and natural. She leaves without another word, without another glance. I ignore the streets. The portrait in front of me that I had longed to see did not feel so free anymore.

I watch as she strides down the cobbled avenue, her hair blowing wildly in the wind behind her. "Write to me", I shout down the road without thinking, "Promise me you'll write", I repeat louder. She pauses at the end by the corner, but then she turns it, and she is gone. I close the door locking the world and my mother out. Half of the truth was once again gone. But two more people had seen it. Two more dangers to both worlds. "Always", I feel myself murmur aloud. That was what father had said to me when he had left. I had asked him to write, though he never did. 'Always', I had said. The truth knew that what I had said was a lie. Both sides of it.

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