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Sophie’s dreams are haunted by extinguished fires, feathers dissolving under her touch, smoke in black hair. The incantation, the curse, is what her lips mouth to themselves as prayer— you who swallowed a falling star, o’ heartless man . She turns these words over and over as you would a stone, a fire, a child’s heart in your palm.
When Sophie wakes up on these nights, the castle walls seem to lean in a little closer. Here: the ring that is a compass that is home rests at her bedside. There: the first dress Howl magicked for her is hung across the room, glowing an impossible robin’s egg blue. Outside, frost clusters at the edges of windows; they are so high up that the atmosphere is thin and cold. The never-ending cacophony of flying is white noise to her at this point; every whirr and groan is Calcifer’s lullaby. She leans over to place a palm on Howl’s chest, and she feels that young pulse flutter, birdlike, as every beat brings it closer to the surface.
Sophie retracts her hand, scalded at the thought. Even now, years after their happy ending, she shivers at the prospect of fate imposing its calculus: this peace is undeserved and there will be enemies at their door and, and, and—she can almost feel the curse returning, her spine hunching. Taking to the sky was not an act of bravery or freedom. Maybe it was for Calcifer, or Markl, or Howl, but for Sophie, it is fight or flight; and for this small family, she would rather they choose the latter. You cannot outrun fate, but by the gods, Sophie will loosen its chains.
The gravity of his calcified heart, cupped like holy water, is a phantom pain for Sophie. It is safe in her hands, she thinks. It is too precious to keep, she argues back. Howl is the most powerful wizard of their generation—well, Sophie is still untested, though definitely not combat-ready —but that child’s heart, oh that young and fickle thing, is years out of practice.
She fears for him. If the battlelines were to be drawn again, or if some foreign god notches their arrow in Howl’s direction, she cannot save him because he would want to save her and they would protect each other into oblivion. Sophie shudders; there are few things that seem more contradictory to her than a lover’s suicide. Is mutual loss not the antithesis of love? Of that sublime feeling she gets in her chest when Howl tips his head towards the sun, soaking in its warmth, when that sun-soaked skin brushes her cheek?
There are moments where he is so surprised at his capacity to experience the beautiful, and he is so visibly moved by the world around him that seeing the shock cross his face fills Sophie’s chest like a flame, stoked.
If there were one survivor in this war , she thinks, staring at his profile in the dark. I would want it to be you. And you would hate me. And you would hate the loneliness. But, Howl, your heart is so young that to love again would just be like taking a second sip of water.
The planes of Howl’s face pool with equal parts moonlight and shadow. From this exact angle, he is incandescent in his softness. Inky, silken hair spills onto white pillows, its cotton turned blue by starlight. Sophie marvels at the way it gleams between her fingertips, and she can see why witches and demons use strands for spells. Already, just by his hair, Sophie feels like she can conjure an infinity: Howl meeting her for his second time, Howl as a child catching a star, Howl as a man-bird-shell-child, Howl, Howl, Howl . The fiber, in her hands, can be unspooled forever because Sophie refuses to let the tapestry end. With them, there has never been a clean beginning.
He sighs in his sleep now. This weariness is new, and although he has tried to emulate the same energy, Sophie knows better. What was once vanity has turned into votive offerings; he has given himself to the family and the castle so completely because there is a new weight in his chest that wasn’t there before. Does it hurt, Howl, your first taste of fear? And the need to spill yourself to preserve the world around you?
It is familiar to Sophie. After all, she is the eldest daughter of three, the sister, just the hatmaker, and in fairy tales, these traits doom you to the wayside. Collateral damage. There, on the outskirts of a story, you become well-versed in the art of altruism. In equal measure, she knows how much caring can take from you, how you need to bottle it up to save it for a rainy day, and how spilling yourself for everyone you love is an act of desperation and preservation.
There are days she wants to yell at the top of her lungs, “Howl! I love you! I love you! Your hair, to me, is also like starlight.” How else can she say, “let me harbor you like you did for me, because I can take it” without hurting him?
Sophie looks at Howl sometimes and thinks, how are you real? She is not particularly religious. Before, her only philosophy was to fulfill her destiny. Destiny has since become anathema to freedom. If demons are real, what is there to say of the man who swallows one whole? That first time flying, Howl really had seemed like an angel, and by touching Sophie, had turned her into one too. Without a heart, you are weightless in more ways than one, and your bones must be hollow like a bird’s to fly, and your flight is both the greatest freedom and a mark of terrible, kingdom-ending power.
She imagines him as a boy in that idyllic house, all alone. It is a miracle that never descended into madness from all that magic running through his veins, the temptation to end wars by ending it all, that tremendous pressure to weaponize your heart. It was a war of attrition on the soul. Every now and then, Sophie adds another log to Calcifer’s fire when she remembers and silently swears, By keeping his heart, you saved him. You allowed him to be a coward without worry. I do not think he would have survived this war otherwise .
It is in those moments that she wants to take Howl by the lapels, pull him close and say, “You are real, and you are mine.” She would clasp their hands together in a show of faith, because in weaving their fingers, they can find their old prayers. “See?” she would say. “Your wish was answered. In each other, we found promised worlds.”
Gently, she cups her palm against his cheek. Howl mumbles something in his sleep—a spell, a hymn, an invocation—Sophie doesn’t quite catch it. It doesn’t matter; she does not open her mouth to say anything. For her, anything true must emerge, unbidden, in the daylight. It is the only way she can provoke that bear, fear, without having to play dead.
Sophie knows that if she were to creak open the door and tiptoe down the stairs, Markl will trail after, bleary-eyed, woken by her footsteps. The old Witch of the Waste would moan from a far corner in the house about her need for beauty sleep. Then, it would only be a matter of time before Calcifier’s loud, prickly inquiries wake the whole castle.
Then, then, her lover would emerge from bed at all the noise, bundled in an absurd amount of blankets, his skinny legs like lollipop sticks. Half-dreaming, he would nestle his head in the crook of her shoulder, and his breath would be stale but still sweet with magic. He would ask, what’s wrong? She would say, now? nothing. And everything would be warm and okay and safe because the enemy, the war, is far from their doorstep.
If the world chases in pursuit of balancing its books, happiness on loan, Sophie is willing to pay the price. For this? For this tenderness? She may be the novice of the castle’s four wizards, but she is the only one accustomed to altruism’s alchemy, how quickly it transmutates into obsession.
If Madame Sullivan were to knock on this door right now, there is no other witch but Sophie who would bite back, foaming at the mouth, mouth full of venom because no one touches this family . Sophie knows she has it in her.
Howl’s even breathing is a brush of heat against her ear. It sends a shiver down her spine, and it is enough. She is safe, and she is loved. In turn, she holds his heart in her hands, keeping it safe.
Sophie closes her eyes, and finally, she falls back asleep.