I struggle to find a comfortable spot on the lumpy chair and am half-tempted to forgo the pile of rocks for the floor. What did they stuff these antique things with?
Bethina stands next to me, her hand on my shoulder. “Would anyone like a drink?”
“A Scotch, if you please,” Mr. Channing says. The rest of us ignore each other.
Bethina places her palms together and a serving tray appears on the coffee table. Like instantaneously. I blink and absorb the fact that I did, actually, just see my caregiver make something materialize out of thin air.
“I’ll let you talk.” Bethina hands Mr. Channing his Scotch before striding out of the room and pulling the French doors shut behind her.
The oversized chair dwarfs me. My feet dangle off the edge and my right sandal falls to the ground. I don’t retrieve it, instead I fold my hands in my lap and count how many times my legs swing back and forth.
For several long minutes, no one says anything. I feel a bit like a caged animal the way Mrs. Channing stares at me. She tilts her head, a gesture I now recognize, and closes her eyes as if concentrating.
My eyes roam around the room, past the antique furniture and paintings. There’s a fireplace—something the State frowns on because it pollutes the air—and several cases stuffed with old-fashioned paper books. A well-stocked bar sits off to my left. Curiously, in the spot where the wall screen has always been, is Mr. Channing’s old coin collection - perfectly organized and mounted to the wall.
“Where’s the wall screen?” I ask, breaking the silence.
Mrs. Channing opens her eyes and says, evenly, “They have all been removed. We think it’s best if, while you’re here, you focus on your studies. Besides, we don’t need wall screens to know what’s going on in the world. We can use magic for that.”
“How?”
Mrs. Channing gives me a cold smile. “That’s of no concern to you”
And that’s that. They’ve effectively cut me off from the outside world. No wristlet. No wall screen. Nothing.
“While you are here, you will abide by a few rules,” Mr. Channing says. “And in return, we’ll provide you with training, to help you learn to use your magic in an appropriate way.”
“So you’re letting me stay? Even though it’s dangerous for Beck to be around me?”
“You are an untrained Dark witch. It’s in our best interest to help you learn to control yourself,” Mrs. Channing replies.
Flutters of hope build in my chest. Maybe I can be fixed. Why else would the Channings insist on training me, if not to save their son?
“The rules are simple. First, you will not leave Summer Hill. We have strict security features in place, such as the dome, and letting you roam around on your own is simply too dangerous,” he says.
“Okay,” I mutter. It’s not like I have many options.
“You will also adhere to a strict schedule. You will have classes all day, with breaks for lunch and dinner. You will not miss these classes.”
Since I’ve never intentionally missed a class in my life, this shouldn’t be hard. Plus, if the only way I can save Beck is to learn how to use magic, I’ll gladly sign up for extra classes. “Absolutely.”
My eyes move to the picture directly behind Mrs. Channing. It’s a man and woman, obviously a couple from the way his arm encircles her waist and he gazes down at her. But it’s her eyes that catch my attention.
“Who are they?” I ask, pointing at the picture.
Mrs. Channing knits her brow together and turns her head. “Miles and Lucy—Patrick’s great-great-grandparents and Charles Channing’s parents.”
I study the picture with more interest. “Her eyes look like Beck’s. And mine. Was my father related to them, too?” I ask, remembering that Bethina said my father descended from a lesser Light line.
Mr. Channing chuckles. “Well, I suppose he could have been. But Sebb was most likely a distant cousin. He certainly was not a direct descendant of Charles Channing.”
Sebb. My father’s name was Sebb. I’d never heard it before and let it roll around in my mind. Sebb. Other than Bethina, during her radical reteaching of Society history, no one’s ever spoken of him to me before. “Is Sebb short for something?”
“Sebastian,” Mrs. Channing says. “And your father was a fool to bind himself to Malin, so don’t go getting any romantic notions about him.”
Beneath my calm façade, irritation pricks at me. Does she have to be so nasty? I bite my lip and narrow my eyes in her direction. A thump against my chest pushes me back against my chair.
No one’s touched me, and yet, I can’t seem to move. Or even allow myself to feel anything other than…complacency.
“As we were saying,” Mrs. Channing continues, “in addition to classes, you will be encased at all times.” She enunciates the word ‘encased’ like I should understand. “And because of your tantrum earlier, and my dining room chairs, we will be tightening it. Can’t have any more mishaps.”
My fingers rub at the little fibers of my sash until the friction burns. “Encased? I don’t know what that is.”
Her lips stretch into a soft smile. “You must know we’d never allow anything to harm Beck.”
I understand. I’m a threat. Underneath her pleasant demeanor, Mrs. Channing is frightened of me—just like Callum and Annalise.
“I don’t want to hurt Beck. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Of course you don’t.” Her smooth voice is patronizing. “But when you arrived, you were in a state. Breaking windows, causing a mini-earthquake, and destroying my house.”
I stammer, “I caused an earthquake?”
“Beck didn’t tell you?” Mr. Channing interjects. “Left out the good parts, did he?” He winks at me.
Here he sits with his son’s mate, who may or may not kill said son, and Mr. Channing winks? The whole conversation makes my skin crawl. My eyes flit instinctively to the door. I want to run from this room. I don’t want to be here anymore.
Mrs. Channing scowls at him. “Really, Patrick, is that necessary?”
She directs her attention back to me. “We will do everything and anything to protect Beck. That’s why the encasing is necessary. We need to be sure that while you are here, learning, you can cause no harm with your out-of-control magic.” She pauses and considers her next words carefully. “The encasing acts like a buffer, so to speak, and helps keep your magic in check. Since you’ve never used magic before, it’s a precaution we must take.”
I scrunch up my toes. The encasing seems like a good idea, considering what I did in the dining room. Plus, I haven’t had seven years of clandestine practices, like some people I know.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” I repeat.
The other sandal hangs off my foot and I shake it loose. It lands with a soft thud and I lift my eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Channing watch me closely as if expecting something more to happen.
No one says anything. We just sit in the shadow of Beck’s ancestors, staring at each other and listening to the ice cubes rattle around Mr. Channing’s glass. Sip. Clink. Rattle, rattle, shake, sip.
The memory of Beck sitting under the tree, wanting me to tell him I care for him, stabs at my heart. I’ve already hurt him, more than I ever meant to. Tears well in my eyes, but I hold them back. I gather myself and wipe my face blank. I can’t let them see me upset.
Mr. Channing waves his hand and a tissue appears in my lap. “There now, Lark. There’s no need to worry. We’re doing this to protect you as much as Beck.”
I’ve always liked the Channings. The few visits Beck and I had here were filled with scavenger hunts, raucous family meals and fun. Seeing them worried about their son, knowing it’s my fault, is difficult. I don’t want this burden.
“There is one more thing,” Mrs. Channing says curtly.
Shouting from the hallway causes all three of our heads to turn. A body bumps against the French doors. Another bump and they burst open to reveal Beck and another man, who
I can’t see, arguing. At the sight of us, Beck holds up his hand to silence the other man, who complies.
“Beck?” Mr. Channing demands. “What are you doing there?”
“Nothing.” He steps out of the room, and the door slams shut.
Mr. and Mrs. Channing exchange a worried look. Mrs. Channing rises from her chair and walks the length of the room. She stops to adjust some flowers in a vase, but I can tell by her rigid posture that she’s tense. It’s a ploy—an attempt to hide her concern.
Her slow trek gives me time to process the information about the encasing. My magic is wrapped up tight. No longer subject to my lack of control and safe to everyone around me. A thought dawns on me.
Mrs. Channing pauses before opening the door. The hallway is empty. At least from where I sit, it appears empty. I assume she sees nothing because she closes the door and returns to her chair.
“Mrs. Channing, does the encasing do anything else?”
She stiffens. “It keeps you calm.”
I stare at her hard. Beneath my dress, my heart thumps rhythmically. The sound of pumping blood rushes through my veins and fills my ears. She tries to look away but can’t.
“And?”
“It prevents you from expressing strong emotions, since those emotions, combined with untrained magic, can cause harm.” She breaks my gaze.
She must be wrong. I’ve expressed strong emotion just this morning on the lawn with Eamon. Of course, I didn’t actually do anything, but I wanted to. My eyes grow wide as I understand what’s happened. I couldn’t do anything. Just like I couldn’t tell Beck how I feel.
“Like…” I hesitate. “Love?” I ask, wanting to prove my theory.
“That’s irrelevant. You’re Dark and incapable of love.”
A cold numbness spreads through my body and works its way into my heart. I gape at her in disbelief. “Incapable of love?”
The numbness gives way to rage. I place one foot on the ground, then the other. My body vibrates as I stand. Mrs. Channing stares at me with disbelief and panic. With small, deliberate steps I move closer to her chair until I’m standing over her. Mr. Channing doesn’t move. His hand and glass are suspended inches from his mouth.
“Why do you think I left home? Why do you think I’m agreeing to your rules?” I pound my fist on the arm of her chair. The rhythm matches the speed of blood charging around my body. “Because Beck is the only thing I care about.”
“Care, but not love. Don’t claim the impossible,” she says.
I lean over Mrs. Channing and rest my hands on either side of her. My face is just inches from hers, but she doesn’t cower.
Her dagger-like eyes cut into me. “Oh, I’m sure you have your own little way of loving, but it’s not real love, Lark. You need to understand that—what you feel for Beck isn’t real love. And it never will be.”
A low hum fills my ears. I want to lash out but can’t. The energy pushes against my chest harder and harder, trying to escape. I double over, gasping.
Under the tree, I wanted to tell him how much he means to me. But I couldn’t. In our room, that last day, I wanted him to kiss me. I know I did. The way he makes me blush, the peace I feel when he’s near me. Aren’t those things love?
Mrs. Channing exhales slowly, her eyes hard. She senses my energy.
Like when I first arrived at Summer Hill, a strong gust of wind—magic, probably—hits me, and the energy evaporates. The noise of the room rushes back into my ears and the blood flows slow and steady around my body. Calm.
“Don’t forget, little girl, I’m still in charge here.” Mrs. Channing’s fingers dig into the arm of her chair and she squares her shoulders to me.
Mr. Channing throws his head back and drains the drink. “The only way we can keep Beck safe is to keep him away from you. If he doubts your feelings, it will be easier for him to let you go when the time comes.”
I step back from Mrs. Channing’s chair and she runs to her husband, like a frightened child. Her threats mean nothing.
“Let me go? Where I am I going to go? I know I can’t be around Beck, but where am I supposed to go?” My voice cracks. “Bethina’s here, Beck’s here. I can’t go back to school.”
I hang my head and squeeze my eyes shut. The room is silent except for the rushing sound of energy filling my body.
When I open my eyes, Mrs. Channing grabs her husband’s arm and stumbles to the left. “Patrick,” she begins, but stops.
I narrow my eyes and focus on how she’s annoying me. Why is she being so unfair?
Mrs. Channing presses her long fingers to her eyebrows and moans in pain. Her body quivers. She turns toward me and then back toward her husband, as if trying to understand something.
Heat floods my body in delicious, comforting waves and a million pricks of energy tingle in my fingertips.
I splay my fingers and close them rapidly. The energy increases. Interesting.
Mrs. Channing gasps.
“Patrick.” Alarm fills her words. “She’s already stronger than we thought. We don’t have much time.”
On cue, the parlor door swings open. Bethina walks across the room and takes my hand protectively.
“Patrick, Margo, Lark needs rest. This is too much for anyone to digest in one sitting.” She guides me out of the room and toward the stairs. I don’t resist and the Channings don’t object.
“Stay away from Beck,” Mrs. Channing shouts from the parlor. “Stay away from my son.”
Bethina squeezes my hand in a familiar way. “Go lie down for a bit. Get some rest. You never get enough rest.”
As I climb the stairs, Mrs. Channing’s hysterical voice drifts from the parlor. A smile forms on my lips and then a laugh escapes. I throw my hand over my mouth, trying to hide it.
I shouldn’t be laughing. But I can’t help it. The sound pours out of me and echoes down the hallway.
21
The morning sun washes across my eyes. Like a cat, I stretch and roll into the warmest spot. I lie there a few minutes before kicking the duvet back.
Did I make the right decision by coming to Summer Hill? These people—witches—fear me.
And I don’t entirely trust them either.
But what choice do I have? School is out of the question—I’ll just end up with Mother.
Which leaves me here. Sitting in a room, in a house full of Light witches who don’t seem to like me but want me here for their own safety—and Beck’s.
I have nothing. My mate is off limits and my friends are my supposed enemies—I think. Are the Dark witches on my side or not? Because Annalise wasn’t exactly friendly.
And who knows what role Bethina plays in everything.
I look over at where Beck’s bed should be. If I were still at school, I’d pester Beck until he woke up. Then I’d curl up in his arms and let his steady heartbeat drown out all the bad news of the past few days.
He must be sleeping somewhere nearby. I can’t imagine the Channings forcing him to sleep in one of the outbuildings just to keep us apart. So, if he’s in the house, I could walk down the hallway and find his room.
Except I may harm him.
A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. Mrs. Channing sticks her head in my room. “Good morning, Lark,” she says smoothly with no hint of yesterday’s fear. “Did you sleep well?”
I swallow a sarcastic reply. “I did. Thanks.”
“Wonderful. Do you think you’ll be ready for breakfast in fifteen minutes? Your lessons start at nine—we need to make sure you get off on the right foot.”
My head nods along in agreement with her words. “Sure. Where should I meet you?”
“Breakfast is being served on the lawn today.” She gives me a strained smile. “I’ll be waiting.”
So I guess that’s how it’s going to be. We’re all going to pretend they love having me here, while I’m to pretend they haven’t messed with my free will. Compromises.
I dress quickly, in a hurry to be out of solitary co
nfinement, and head toward the lawn.
The bright, early morning sunlight blinds me momentarily and I squint. At first, only a few lone souls meander about, but within seconds, the lawn is alive with a crush of people. Like my welcoming party, these people seem to have appeared out of nowhere. The sun reflects off their vibrant, shimmering tunics, creating a rainbow of green, yellow, blue, red, and orange—the distinct colors of the Five Societies.
This isn’t a small, local Gathering—the Channings have called on witches from across the globe. Which means this witch thing is bigger than I realized.
Their voices—laughing, singing, whispering—blend together and create a low hum. But even with that, I can hear the flap of bird wings, crickets chirping and the rustle of the grass. Everything seems amplified,more alive. Maybe my unchecked magic prevented me from seeing true beauty before?
I move toward the breakfast line and it all stops.
Dead silence.
Every set of eyes latches onto me, and I shrink back toward the kitchen door. No one has to tell me I’m not wanted.
“Lark?” Mrs. Channing calls cheerfully from buffet. “Are you coming?”
Her voice breaks the other witches’ trance and they resume their activities. Maybe this isn’t a good idea and I should stay in the house. At least there people can’t ogle me with suspicion.
Mrs. Channing motions with her hand. “Now or never, Lark.”
As uncomfortable as I am, I’m also starving. And she has strawberries—my favorite.
When I step off the porch, the witches nearest me retreat, like I’m toxic. Don’t let them see you upset. I steel myself against their disapproving glares and stroll, jaw clenched, to the front of the breakfast line. No one objects.
After I fill my plate, I scan the crowd for Beck. But all I see are hostile faces watching my every move. I wonder if he’s still upset with me, or if he’s being kept from me. Doesn’t matter. Either way, he’s not here. And that’s probably a good thing…until I learn to control myself.
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