After a month of indecision, Kamuil decided that a bracelet would be right. Something thin and slender, woven woodland sage around a base of wisteria. He imagined showing it to her, holding it gently so she could see the delicate flowers and how they still blossomed—would bloom for seasons more. He imagined slipping it onto her wrist, and when he whispered one last thread of magic into the vines, he would hold her hand, upturned, her skin against his while the bracelet tightened to fit her perfectly. The flowers vibrant against her pale skin.

The problem was he would need his father’s help. Kamuil had been practicing for a few years and knew he could collect the sage and wisteria, treat it, and braid it successfully. He could even easily infuse the magic to make it fit perfectly, but the leap from a woven bracelet to a living one required magic too advanced. It required too deep an understanding of the essence of life, and one mistake would leave him with nothing more than a shriveled, desiccated circle.

He spent another few days trying to think of something else, something he could accomplish on his own, but every other idea paled in comparison. He went to the academy, sat for his lessons, stared at the back of her head during the lectures on magical scripts, and again on the history of magic through the ages. How the sunlight cast her hair golden but the shadows turned it to autumn wheat. He imagined giving her the gift, and tried to think of something else. Flowers picked from the garden, but giving a girl flowers was so unoriginal he knew he could have no hope of impressing her. When he watched how she tucked her hair behind her elongated elvish ear, he imagined giving her a bracelet or necklace made from silver, but he knew that he couldn’t afford anything elegant enough to match her. And in his mind the moment when he handed it over felt wrong. The silver would be set in a velvet case. She would take the case and that would be the end of it. It was too cold, both the metal and the gesture.

And, after all, it was the elves long ago who had taught humans the magic for living crafts. Nothing else held the same weight in such a light gift.

Finally, he knew he didn’t have much more time. Summer was at its height, and the wisteria would not be in bloom for much longer. If he dallied, he would be left with only the sage without the subtler hints of wisteria. The day he decided to share his plan with his father, he stopped in the fields between the academy and his home and waded through tall grass and sage. He caressed the flowers, searching for clusters that were perfectly shaped, dense, and soft to the touch. When he found the perfect flowers, he whispered tender magic into his harvest knife. With the old chant, he could feel the life essence of the surrounding plants breathe into the air, rise up from the ground, and gather on the edge of his knife. When he sliced through the stems, he whispered the prayers his mother had taught him, both to apologize to the earth for taking his harvest and to comfort the plant in its moment of agony. So imbued with borrowed life from the others, they would survive the journey home and the time until he could weave them together.

By the time he made it back, the sky was streaked with fire and the clouds were heavy with deep shadows. He let himself in the through the gate and went around the house, through the garden bursting with flowers, bees, and vegetables, through the stone path between the fruit trees to his father’s workshop. It was a small, squat building with four young trees for the corners, walls woven from shrubs while the roof was a tangle of flowering vines and curved branches. The air was cooler and the shade was full of the rich scent of tree exhalations. Inside, his father was hunched over his work table made from several old logs held together by living vines. His long hair merged into his beard, and his massive fingers seemed too large for the delicate work he was doing to a small, wilted sapling’s roots.

His father looked up when Kamuil came in and cast a shadow over his work. “You’re home,” he said. When Kamuil stepped farther in, his father lifted his hand to block the setting sun. “Is it so late already? Where have you been?”

A nervous tremble vibrated his heart and stretched all the way to his hands as he stepped forward and laid the sage on the edge of the table. “Will you help me make something?”

His father’s smile emerged from his thick beard like an animal from its den after a long winter hibernation. Since his mother had died, Kamuil knew he did not speak to his father the same way, and often the silences between them could stretch for days. Not out of malice, but simply out of a weight between them that neither seemed to fully understand. In his father’s grin, he saw some of that time before, when his father carried himself with a greater lightness through the days. Kamuil’s stomach twisted, as he knew he was opening a door with his request, giving a chance for them to feel as they had before, and it seemed both impossible and offensive to do. But he also knew that this tiny opening of a door would be nothing compared to how exposed he would be when he offered his gift. If he couldn’t do this one thing, he knew he had no chance of following through on his decision.

“Of course, my boy,” he said. He gingerly set the sapling into a clay pot and smoothed soil around its base. He looked at the sage, picked up a stalk, and nodded in approval at the cut.

“I want to make a living bracelet,” Kamuil said.

Father’s eyebrows went up. He eyed Kamuil for a moment before returning his attention to the sage. “You’ve picked good accents for that. What will you use for the base?”

“Wisteria.”

Father nodded. “Good. Seasonal. Slender but not brittle.” He kept his eyes on the sage and busied his hands moving it about as he asked, “And why do you want to make a living bracelet?”

“For a gift.”

“A fine gift.” He smoothed his beard, but Kamuil could see his small smile before he hid it. Making a great show of paying attention to the sage, he asked, “And who is this gift for?”

Kamuil took a wavering breath and said, “Malikara.”

His father nodded slowly. “Malikara. A very pretty name. Elvish, yes?”

“Yes.”