I hate the way he’s talking to me as if he knows me, as if he knows the hurt my magic has caused. He doesn’t know anything. He’s just repeating what Mr. Burrows has told him, and it makes me want to leave and refuse to train with him. Refuse to train with anyone.
Just nine more months, I remind myself.
When I don’t say anything, Sang keeps going. “We’ll do a few practice runs, then we’ll do the real test to set your baseline. Sound good?”
I nod.
“Okay, ready when you are,” he says.
It’s a simple task, but I’m nervous and can’t pinpoint why. My heart beats faster, and I wipe my palms on my jeans before getting started. I close my eyes and raise my hands in front of me, but I put them back down when I realize they’re shaking.
“I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I haven’t done any magic since the tornado.”
“No worries. Just take your time.” The tension between us seems to have faded, and Sang’s voice is even and kind. The way he was the first day I met him.
I take several deep breaths and start again. This time, my hands remain steady as I call my magic to the surface.
Autumn magic builds on an undercurrent of thankfulness and sorrow, a symphony of contrasting emotions that’s easy to get lost in.
Thankfulness for the harvest and the fruits of the earth.
Sorrow because death is on the horizon. The days are getting shorter, the skies turning gray, the plants growing dormant.
Soon I forget that Sang’s eyes are on me, and I get lost in the magic, in the way it feels to summon the wind from nothing, the way the cool air dances across my neck and face. The way my power comes easier when there’s nothing at stake. I build the wind up, stronger and stronger, and on Sang’s mark, I send it into the trees.
I open my eyes and watch as the wind enters the woods, dying out after just a few rows of evergreens.
I must look disappointed, because Sang says, “That was just a practice run. Let’s try it again.”
I nod. But this time, when I raise my hands and get started, something feels different. A calming sensation drifts over me, slowing my heart and steadying my breath. It makes me want to give in to the power inside me, makes me feel like I can. Like it’s safe. My eyes snap open, and I look at Sang.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my tone more accusatory than I intend.
“Sorry, I should have warned you,” he says. “Mr. Bur—” He cuts himself off and starts again. “Spring magic is calm, as you obviously know. And for whatever reason, I can isolate that characteristic and project it outward. It’s the same as feeling another witch’s magic when they’re working right next to you. Mine just happens to feel calm.” He shrugs.
“It’s so strong,” I say. “I’ve felt other witches’ underlying emotions while I was practicing with them, but it’s always fleeting and subtle. It’s amazing that you can control it that way.”
“I wish I could take credit for it, but it isn’t something I had to learn to control. It’s always come naturally to me.”
“Amazing,” I say, more to myself than to Sang.
But something about it doesn’t sit right with me. It can’t be just a coincidence that Sang has a type of magic that calms me down as I’m using my own.
Then it hits me: Mr. Burrows didn’t bring Sang here to study botany. He brought him here to help me with my magic, hoping that his calming effect would take away my fear of losing control.
“Is something wrong?” Sang asks.
Part of me wants to tell him he was duped, but I don’t want him to leave, stranding me to train alone with Mr. Burrows.
I swallow hard. “No, sorry. I was just surprised. Let’s try again.”
I feel Sang’s current of magic instantly, calming the anger that’s brewing inside me. I take a long, deep breath and release the tension in my shoulders. I straighten my back and raise my hands.
Autumn magic rises up inside me, its melancholic song pouring from my fingers and into the space in front of me, building up the wind as it goes. My hair blows out behind me, and my jacket flaps in the current, getting stronger and stronger as more magic builds.
My instinct is to push it down, force it to stay put, but there is no one here for it to gravitate toward. No one here for it to hurt.
The thought relieves me and makes me so lonely it’s hard to breathe.
The wind lessens around me, but then I’m met with more of Sang’s calming magic. It helps me refocus, and this time, when the wind builds to its highest point, I send it barreling toward the trees.
It makes it farther than the first time, and Sang nods in approval.
“You know, I won’t always have a witch around who can calm me whenever I need it,” I say dryly.
“You won’t need it,” he says. “The point is that you’ll learn what the full extent of your magic feels like in a controlled, calm environment. You’ll get used to it. You’ll learn to control it. And then it won’t scare you anymore.”
“Memorize that from the Everwitch 101 pitch they gave you?”
Sang shakes his head and looks at me with such earnestness that I have to look away. “Not everyone is out to get you, you know.”
I sigh. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a jerk.”
“I know you’ve had a rough few months. But as long as we’re doing this together, we may as well make the best of it. I’ll give it my all if you do.”
“Okay,” I say. “Deal.”
“Let’s get your baseline set and call it a day.”
I go through the same routine as before, Sang’s calm blanketing me, and this time, when I send the wind into the woods, Sang tosses a large red ribbon into the current. We watch as it blows through the trees, past the rows where my previous attempts stopped, until it finally slows and the ribbon catches on a branch.
“I should be able to obliterate this entire forest,” I say as we walk to find the ribbon. “I’m so used to pushing my magic down, I’m not even sure I know how to let it go. I don’t think I could lose control even if I wanted to.”
“You’ll get there.” He says it as if it’s obvious, the surest thing in the whole world.
When we get to the tree where the ribbon is caught, Sang takes out a large roll of bright-red tape and wraps it around the trunk several times.
“Congratulations,” he says. “You’ve set your baseline.”
“It’s not much,” I say, embarrassed by how far I have to go. “But I guess it’s something.”
“It’s something,” Sang agrees.
We walk back to the control field and gather our things.
“Hey,” he says, pausing. “I can’t imagine how hard it must have been, coming to train with me today instead of Mr. Hart.”
I look at him. His dark-brown eyes have rings of gold in the centers, as if the Sun herself wanted to live in his gaze. I didn’t notice it before, but now that the bruise around his eye is gone, it’s all I can see.
“It was hard,” I say. “But I didn’t really have a choice.” I remember what he said about his research and soften my tone. “I guess neither of us did.”
Sang shrugs. “I came out here to study botany, and instead I’m running from tornadoes and getting black eyes. What can you do?” He slips on his sweatshirt and slings his bag over his shoulder.
“The black eye wasn’t so bad. It made you look pretty badass.”
“I don’t think the word badass has ever been used to describe me before.”
I drop my mouth open and give him my best shocked face. “But you’re a botanist who loves to study!”
“I know,” Sang agrees. “It’s baffling.” He zips his sweatshirt and follows me off the field.
“I’ll see you Tuesday,” I say, walking off toward my small cabin. I’m anxious to get back to Alice’s book, but somet
hing makes me stop and turn. “Hey, Sang?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry you got stuck with this. With me. I hope you get to make up your trip soon.”
“I’m sure I will. And I’m sorry you got stuck with me too.” The way he says it makes me sad, like the sorrow that flows from autumn magic.
“There are worse people to be stuck with,” I say.
“I’m flattered, truly.” I can’t help but laugh, and he flashes me a smile. “See you Tuesday,” he says.
Instead of leaving as well, I stay where I am, watching Sang as he walks off the field. It’s only when I can no longer see him that I finally walk away.
Chapter Ten
“If spring is a whispered promise that everything can be made new, autumn is a brilliant sacrifice born of love. Because if the autumn did not love the spring, it would not fall to winter just so the spring could rise.”
—A Season for Everything
Finals week at Eastern is unlike finals week anywhere else. There’s a heaviness that settles on the shoulders of those whose season is nearing its end and a lightness in those whose season is about to begin. The autumns move around campus like zombies, slow and unkempt and easily agitated. They’re mourning the loss of their season, their perfect position to the sun, the most important part of themselves, and it won’t be back in its entirety for nine months.
Even I feel it. Right now, I believe autumn is the best season. I don’t want it to end.
But on the first day of winter, I’ll forget all about autumn, the way warmth makes you forget what it’s like to be cold.
Our last final was this afternoon, and now it’s time for our season-end celebration before the new quarter starts. Gravel crunches underneath my heels as I walk down the path to the library. The remaining leaves dance in the breeze before finally falling to the earth, and the wind blows my burnt-orange dress against my legs, the long silk skirt billowing out behind me.
The dress code for the Harvest Ball is formal, and seeing everyone dressed up after a quarter of jeans and sweaters is always satisfying.
I didn’t want to come tonight. So much noise, so many people, and the breathtaking loneliness of being alone in a crowded room.
But it’s important to honor the season.
The Harvest Ball doesn’t start until late in the evening, when the sky is perfectly black. It always happens on the full moon. The moonlight casts a blue glow on the path, interrupted every few minutes by a passing cloud. Mounds of fallen leaves have been swept to the sides, covering the dark earth with beds of color. The library is lit up in the distance, music and voices carrying out into the cold night air.
I walk up the cement steps, through the front doors of the old building. The stone that covers the outside of the library makes up the inside walls as well. Large windows stretch all the way up to the third story. Shelves of books line the walls, and the smell of old paper hangs in the air. All of the tables and desks have been moved out of the center of the room, where a dance floor is set up and a live quartet plays for the students and faculty.
Hundreds of candles, fake but beautiful, line the bookshelves and railings, the perimeter of the floor and the tops of the cocktail tables. Flower arrangements in deep oranges and rich greens fill dozens of vases. Ivy wraps around the staircase railings, and dark-purple orchids decorate the hot-cider stations. Burgundy linens and silver goblets adorn the tables.
The ball is gorgeous every year, but this year I’m especially taken with it.
The Harvest Ball is our way of thanking autumn for its many gifts, thanking the Sun for taking us with her for another season. This was a particularly brutal season, but we still show thanks.
On a gold stand in the corner of the room is a picture of Mr. Hart. Ivy drapes over the top of the frame, and candlelight flickers off the canvas. I miss him and wish he could see that I’m trying, even when all I want to do is give up. Mr. Hart’s belief in me is the only thing that keeps me showing up to my training sessions with Sang. We’ve only been training together a few weeks, always working on the same drill, but we’re finding our rhythm. And I’m giving it my all. I owe at least that much to Mr. Hart.
“Thank you for the book,” I whisper.
I’m so sorry. Those are the words I can’t get out, so instead I play them over and over in my head.
I’m so sorry.
So sorry.
I look at his picture for a long time and turn away only when it becomes hard to breathe.
I walk the perimeter of the library. A large table full of harvested fruits lines the side of the room. Bowls of apples and pears, figs and persimmons sit on a bed of dried leaves. Twinkle lights weave through the arrangement.
It occurs to me that in years past, a botanist has done our floral arrangements, and I turn to look for Sang in the crowd. But he’s already walking toward me, and before he has a chance to speak, I say, “You didn’t do the floral arrangements, did you?”
“That depends. Do you like them?”
“I love them. The ivy down the stairs, the orchids, the fruit. It’s all gorgeous.”
“Thanks,” he says, following my eyes around the room. “But the flowers do all the work.” He smiles, momentarily lost in thought, then looks at me. “I want to show you something.”
I follow Sang to a nearby cocktail table. He pulls an arrangement closer to us, and the gold in his eyes seems to shimmer as he looks at the flowers. The edge of his hand is smudged with faint yellow paint.
“See this flower?” He points to a bright-orange one with big petals and white stripes down the middle. I nod. “This is called a sleeping orange. Nobody uses it in arrangements because the bud stays closed and the stem has all these microthorns on it.” He pulls the flower out a little, and I look closely at the stem.
“See how it looks like there’s fuzz on it? Those are tiny thorns—hundreds of them—so this poor flower is forgotten about, cast aside as unfit. But if you soak the flower in water and honey the night before, the thorns break down just enough to feel soft. Touch it.”
I reach my hand out and touch the stem with my finger. Sure enough, the tiny thorns are soft.
“And only then does the flower bloom.”
“Incredible,” I say.
“They really are. And while most people aren’t willing to put in the work to get the payoff, I can’t imagine a better use of my time. Why are we expected to show our most vulnerable selves to the world, anyway?”
Sang strokes one of the petals, then pushes the flower back into the arrangement.
His honesty mystifies me, and I study him like he’s a subject I don’t understand. He practically is.
Sang’s cheeks turn a deep shade of red. He coughs, and an awkward laugh comes out. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m not sure why I said all of that.”
I look at the orange flower and wonder what it would feel like to trust someone so much that I’d let them see my hidden parts. I used to have that with Paige and Nikki, the kind of trust that never felt like work. The kind that was as natural as sunlight in summer. Sometimes I don’t think I’m capable of it anymore. And even if I were, it wouldn’t be safe. My magic would always know.
It’s too hot in here, and I look away from Sang. My eyes find Paige’s in the crowd of people, and she looks from me to Sang and back again. I can’t be in here anymore—too many people, too many memories, too many questions.
“I need some fresh air,” I say.
Cold hits me when I exit the library, and the moon illuminates the bench where I sit. Ever since Nikki died, I’ve perfected the art of never opening up, never letting anyone in. But something about Sang makes it harder for me. I’m not used to his kind of openness, and I don’t like it. I don’t trust it.
Someone sits down next to me, and I try to come up with an excuse to ditch Sang again, but when I turn my head, it isn’t
him sitting next to me. It’s Paige.
Her light-blue eyes catch mine, her long blond hair reflecting the moonlight.
She is the one person who knows everything about me, all my back alleys and dark closets where no one else has ever looked.
And I know hers.
She was my summer fling last year, but calling it a fling isn’t fair to what we had. We were best friends first. She somehow climbed over all my walls and broke into my heart. When spring gave way to summer, our friendship caught on fire.
Then Nikki died, and I ended things right away. I couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk her.
I’m still not sure if I got out in time or if she’s still at risk. Paige’s name weighs heavy on my shoulders. She was so angry, so hurt when I ended things that she pushed me out of her life entirely, slamming the door on everything we had—not only with each other, but with Nikki as well. I know it was for the best, but losing my relationship with Paige felt like losing Nikki again too.
It’s been over a year, and I miss her. She’s sitting right next to me, and I still miss her. But our friendship got mixed up with our romance.
I loved Paige as a friend, a fierce, loyal love that lasted season after season. So maybe she was never safe, romance or not. Maybe my magic would have found her regardless. I pray the Sun doesn’t recognize her anymore, doesn’t feel the pull between us.
It takes Paige a while to speak, and I wonder if she’s thinking about all our loose ends the same way I am.
“I’ve seen you out there training with Sang,” she says. “You’re getting better.”
“I’m behind.”
“You’ll catch up.”
I look at her, but she’s focusing on a point in the distance. Things have been over between us for a long time, but she lingers, the way a hearth stays warm long after the last flame dies out.
The Nature of Witches Page 7
