During his last visit, he stroked the curve of my raised arm and admonished me for not holding it as high as the other swan maidens. Then, for the only time that I can recall, he admonished himself as well.
“The perfect spell would have allowed me to correct such a flaw. But magic isn’t perfect, is it?”
That was when I noticed the marks on Fyodor’s arms–the kind of puckered red
