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Maurits was waiting for Clara on a rock near the shore, a warm blanket and dry shoes in his hands. He helped dry her, tenderly,

and then whistled. A moment later, a white horse emerged from the dunes, shaking its mane in greeting.

“I thought you might be more comfortable riding back to the city,” Maurits said by way of an explanation as he lifted her

onto the animal’s back. When she looked down to ask him where he had gotten the horse, he just raised a brow, cocky. “The

same way as the magpie that used to curry messages to you. The same way that I now stand on legs before you.”

She had hardly realized he had his legs back at first. Whether he was standing or lounging, walking or swimming, he was simply

Maurits, and she loved him completely. “Then you have no need of this,” she said, producing her last wish and handing it down

to him.

He gave her a sharp look before taking the stone, running his thumb over it. “This is yours, Clara, given to you to use for

your own desires.”

The Dutch did not have much use for poetry; what could words convey that the delicate curve of a tulip stem could not?

Or a mellow shaft of light falling into a clean-swept room?

But now Clara wished that she had the language to express how deeply he had insinuated himself into her heart, how painfully aware she was that their souls were one and the same.

“But I have everything my heart desires. I only want you to be happy... to be whatever it is you want to be.”

“Clara.” He lifted her back down from the horse, and they stood facing each other, the cold sea breeze binding them closer.

“My powers are mine to gain back and use as I will or will not. Already I am learning how to hone them. It is not my mother’s

responsibility or yours to hand them to me. Besides, legs or fins, it does not matter,” he said, echoing her own observation.

“The heart that beats beneath the skin still beats only for you. The blood that runs through my veins flows only for you.

You are the air that I breathe, the water that gives me life.”

“Oh, how I hope you never lose your voice again,” she said, tipping toward him on her toes and whispering a kiss against his

jaw. “For I shall never tire of hearing such beautiful words from your lips.”

Before he could return the kiss, she pulled away and began walking back toward the water. The wind was fierce, her skirt snapping

and billowing behind her like a ship’s sail as she strode to the surf. She weighed the stone in her palm only once before

hurling it up and out into the black water where it was received with nothing more than an inaudible splash.

Then she walked back to her beautiful lover who still waited for her beside the horse, and let him lift her up once again.

He swung up behind her, legs pressed against her own. “Let some other creature have the wish,” she told him over her shoulder,

“for I already have all the luck in the world.”

Clara has always known that there is magic in the number seven.

Seven, the number of beings, some old and magic, some not, that sit on the council that now presides over all the lands.

Seven, the number of rickety steps that lead up to Clara’s studio in the eaves where she paints an imperfect past in the hopes of a more beautiful future.

Seven, the number of days a week that Clara goes to sleep beside her beloved every night.

Seven, the number of sounds that no longer haunt her dreams, but remind her that there is more to life than that which is

reflected on a canal’s surface.

* * * * *