Inches

The house looks worse, somehow.
 
It isn't. Not really. Muse has been back and forth a few times now, bringing canvas tarps and tools to cover broken windows and temporarily patch holes in the roof. Nothing of significance has changed since they were last here. But they could swear that every time they return, the house has decayed even more than before. It looks even gloomier here in the dark before dawn, lit only by the shadows from Muse’s lantern, slouched against the land like some great beast in slumber.
 
They rest a hand against the great wooden door and stare for a long while at the cracks and dry rot in its carved surface. Its repair is beyond them, for the moment. So is the repair of the crumbling, moss-covered steps leading up to the entry and the statues that flank it. But that will come in time.
 
They step inside the foyer. The ghosts of paintings stare back from the walls and ceilings. And they have seen paintings, now. Paintings that have been cared for, whether on canvas or directly on walls, as these have been. They can picture the vibrancy these colors must have held, once, when they were new. When the house was still full of servants to clean and maintain them. When the walls were still full of life. Now they are faded and cracked. The gaunt, pale pits of their faces send a chill down Muse's spine, one they have never felt before. Maybe it would have been easier, if they had never seen the art that lives in the homes of city folk. Then they wouldn't know so keenly that something here was wrong.
 
Muse glides through the foyer and into the corridors. Their fingers trail delicately over splintered wood paneling and flaking plaster and paint. They creep into each room, checking closets and furniture and a hundred other items they have checked a million times before. They have catalogued the disrepair more times than they can count. But this time, for the first time, they can do more than simply catalogue.
 
The first thing they pick up is a shattered porcelain bowl. Its delicate paint, flaked off from years of exposure and disuse, will never be the same. But a wash of gold sparks covers it, and it is only a matter of moments before the scattered pieces fuse back into a whole. Muse holds the bowl up to eye-level, checking it over for signs of any additional flaws. Then they set it gently down atop the ancient, cracked chest of drawers it must have fallen from, and back away, already searching for more.
 
They float through the house like a glittering wraith of metal and moonshadow. Their head swings back and forth as they search, as if scenting the air for more. Small tears in curtains and drapes find themselves stitched back together. Small cracks in mirrors disappear, leaving their surfaces unmarred once again. Dented servingware, cracked cookware, rotted and snapped legs of tables and chairs - Muse finds each one in turn and runs their hands over them, and in a shower of gold sparks, they are whole.
 
The windows are next. Gold lights flash from the upstairs rooms, one after the other, brilliant points of light in the pre-dawn haze of blue. There are delicate etchings and spirals in the glass that Muse cannot repair, but fusing the worst of the damage, to keep the worst of the weather from getting in more than it already has…for now, that will be enough.
 
Each individual pane of glass requires casting their spell anew. It isn’t long before Muse feels their shoulders and head growing heavy from the effort. Each wave of sparks takes longer to appear. Each new effort feels like pushing a boulder more than it does throwing a pebble. These simple magics, the magics they thought could be used at a whim…maybe there is a limit to even those. But that will be alright. They will rest when it is over. But they cannot stop. Not yet.
 
They only make it through a few rooms before white pressure explodes behind their eyes. They stop and plant a hand against one wall, their fingers nearly scratching off the delicate layers of paint and plaster. They bring their other hand to their helm and fall very still until the pain recedes. Only once they are sure they can move without falling do they look up again.
 
The light of the rising sun filters through a half-repaired window. Some of the panes are still shattered, and the frame itself is weathered, eaten through by termites and any other number of pests. But two of the panes glint in the golden light of morning, fully repaired.
 
Muse turns away. Each step drives another white-hot knife through their pounding head. By the time they reach the great entry door, they have to lean heavily on their staff just to stand. And the work is not done. The work is not anywhere near done. They will have to return another day, when it doesn’t hurt just to think. But even now, even under the nausea that keeps threatening to knock them off their feet, something else is beginning to boil.
 
They would not have learned this magic if they had stayed at home. And the house would be worse off for it. If this pain is any indication, they are still not good enough. They can only measure their progress in inches. But inches are better than never moving forward at all.