The Nature of Witches

by Rachel Griffin

  “I was about to win the ring of fire when I was struck by lightning instead.”

  I laugh and help him sit up. “Yes, I’m sure you were going to win.”

  “I would have given you a run for your money,” Paige says beside me, but I can hear the relief in her voice.

  Sang looks at her. “I believe that,” he says.

  Paige stands and goes to the rest of our classmates, tells them Sang’s okay and that they’re not to tell anyone else what happened unless they want to open themselves up to Ms. Suntile’s punishment.

  “Can you walk?” I ask, my voice shaking.

  Sang reaches his hands to my face and looks me right in the eyes. “I’m okay, I promise. Just a burn and some sore muscles. I’ll be fine.” He wipes the tears from my cheeks and gives me a soft kiss.

  “This was my fault.” It’s a terrifying realization that I whisper more to myself than him.

  “What? No, it was a stupid game that got out of hand. That’s all.”

  “Sang, I watched it go after you. It sought you out.” My breath gets quicker and shallower as I realize the full weight of what happened. “I can’t keep you safe,” I say between sobs.

  “Hey, let’s talk about this later, okay? It’s late, and it’s been a long night.” He slowly gets to his feet, and I stand with him, ready to catch him in case he falls. But he’s steady, his vision and breathing back to normal.

  “That burn’s going to hurt like hell,” Paige says. “I still have some cream left over from when I was struck earlier this year. Hey, we could start a club.”

  “That isn’t funny,” I say to her through clenched teeth.

  “Not even a little?” Her mouth quirks, and I know she’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to keep me from spiraling into thoughts of my parents and Nikki and how I have no control over who I am.

  But it’s too late. I’m already there.

  “He’s right,” Paige says, removing all teasing from her voice. “It was just a game that got out of hand. That’s all.”

  “You saw how it passed right by you,” I say. “It chose him.”

  “Well, you know what they say: lightning never strikes the same place twice.” She pauses, letting her horrible joke hang in the air between us. Then her mouth quirks up again, and I can’t help but laugh.

  Sang laughs, too, pulling me into his side and planting a kiss on the top of my head. But dread moves through me and sits heavy in my gut.

  I thought I had gained control over my magic, thought I’d finally mastered it. Thought it was no longer a threat to the people I care about.

  But I was wrong.

  If I don’t separate myself from Sang, keep my magic far away from him, he will always be at risk.

  The realization breaks my heart in two, but it’s the only way.

  I wrap my arm around Sang and get him home. I tend to his burns and tuck him in with perfect tucker-inner technique. I kiss him softly in the darkness and watch as he drifts into a heavy sleep.

  And as his breaths come and go, the only sound interrupting my thoughts, I plan out the words I’ll say in the morning, when I’ll end the best thing I’ve ever had.

  My heart aches, knowing it’s something I’ll never heal from.

  And for the very first time, I hope that when autumn comes, it makes my feelings vanish. Gone, as if they were never here at all.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “The pain of love is almost directly inverse to the joy of it.”

  —A Season for Everything

  I wake up to early morning light filtering in through thin curtains. Birds chirp outside the window, and Sang breathes softly in his bed, fast asleep. I tried to stay up all night, to make sure Sang was okay, but I crawled into bed next to him sometime after three. I didn’t even bother to change out of my dress.

  His back is pressed up against my torso, my arm wrapped around him, clutching him as if he’s the most precious thing in the world. The night before floods into my mind, images of dancing with Sang while he whispered in my ear, kissing in the gardens, playing the ring of fire, being so incredibly happy. Then lightning. I ache with the memory of it, with how quickly the night turned.

  I was so sure I’d mastered my magic, so sure it was within my control. Even now, I don’t know where I went wrong. I was able to use more magic than I ever had to stop a blizzard, and Sang was safe, but a stupid game with zero stakes turned into a nightmare. I don’t understand.

  Maybe I’ve approached my magic all wrong; maybe I’ll never have total control over it. Maybe it will always be a risk to the people I care about most.

  Suddenly, I’m angry that I’ve devoted so much time to training, given so much of myself to the process. And now I’m stuck. Before I knew I could pull off-season magic, the eclipse was always my answer: get stripped, stop hurting people.

  But it’s so complicated now.

  If I don’t get stripped, my magic will save countless witches from depletion, but Sang and anyone else unlucky enough to be cared about by me is at risk.

  If I do get stripped, witches will continue to die needlessly, but I could have relationships. I wouldn’t have to be alone.

  It makes me want to scream in frustration.

  I know I need to get up. Start the day. Talk with Sang. But the thought of removing my arm from his body, of creating a space between us that will never be closed again, threatens to undo me. It makes everything hurt, my heart and stomach and head and throat. So I stay. For another hour, I keep my arm draped over him, my forehead nestled into his back, and I memorize the rhythm of his breathing. I match my breaths to his, count the seconds between inhales, so that even when I’m alone in my cabin, I can breathe with him.

  In, out. In, out.

  Sang stirs beside me, and I quietly slide off the bed. It’s the first time I’ve been in his apartment, and it’s so perfectly him that it’s hard to look at. I didn’t see any details last night, when it was dark and I was solely focused on Sang.

  But now it’s bathed in golden light, and I see him everywhere. There are dozens of houseplants hanging from the ceiling and covering most of the horizontal surfaces. Species I recognize and species I don’t. There’s an old wooden desk covered with half-completed paintings and drawings, watercolor staining the wood, and dirty water with brushes in it.

  There’s a framed picture of him with a little boy, whom I assume is his nephew. Another framed photo from his graduation, his parents on either side of him, proud smiles on their faces. It stings, knowing I’ll never meet them. Knowing I expected that one day, I would.

  I walk into the kitchen and put the kettle on, but when I look for tea, I’m met with an entire cupboard of loose-leaf varieties I have no idea how to prepare. Jars and jars of Assams and Darjeelings and oolongs, teas I’ve never heard of before. I don’t think I’ve ever had tea that didn’t come in a bag, and if this were a normal morning, I’d ask Sang what the differences are and watch as he prepared some. I feel as if I’m already missing out on all these things that could have been.

  There’s a jar of ground willow bark on the first shelf, and I grab it and dump some in water to simmer on the stove. Willow bark is a natural pain reliever, and Sang will have a nasty headache when he wakes. Once it’s done simmering, I set it aside to let it steep.

  I wrap my arms around my chest and walk into the living room, sinking into the only chair. There’s an easel in the corner with a half-finished painting on it, a large pine tree in an otherwise urban setting. The detail is incredible, so realistic and vivid it could be a photograph. A book of poetry sits on one side of the chair, a huge science fiction novel on the other. I page through the poetry, paying special attention to the poems Sang has marked. They’re all about nature. My fingers trace the paper, and I only put it down when I hear the floor creak.

  I jump up and rush into the bedroom. Sang i
s sitting on the side of his bed, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, holding his head. His eyes light up when he sees me. “Hi,” he says, voice still groggy with sleep.

  The pain in my chest gets worse.

  “Hi,” I say. “Headache?”

  He nods, and I walk to the kitchen and strain the bark from the water before pouring it into a mug. I hand it to him, and he takes a long sip.

  “I found your stash of willow bark,” I say.

  He gives me a grateful smile. “I would have cleaned up if I’d known you’d be coming over.” His voice is shy, and I almost laugh. There isn’t a single thing out of place.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask, sitting next to him. My dress pools on the floor around my feet, and I wish I had changed into something of Sang’s. But the thought of having to give it back to him makes me glad I didn’t.

  “My skin feels like it’s on fire, and my muscles are really sore. Otherwise I’m fine.”

  I take a deep breath and try to erase the memory of him being struck by my own lightning, but I know I’ll never forget it. It will stay with me and haunt me the way the images of my parents and Nikki and Mr. Hart do.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. I can’t look at him.

  He rubs his hand over my back. “It was an accident,” he says, the words so gentle.

  “It was foreseeable,” I say.

  “You had no way of knowing. It was just a game that got out of hand. That’s all.”

  “That isn’t all, and you know it.”

  We’re silent for several moments. “Why don’t we get you some tea first, and then we can talk about it?” He stands up and offers his hand to me, but I don’t take it. He looks at his open palm and frowns, then walks to the small kitchen. I follow behind him.

  “I started the water, but I got overwhelmed by the selection,” I say.

  He laughs, but it’s superficial and small. “Do you like black tea in the morning?”

  I nod, and he grabs a jar from the cupboard labeled ASSAM. “This one’s my favorite,” he says, scooping the leaves into a porcelain teapot, a routine that’s clearly second nature to him. It’s soothing, and I think it would be nice to start the day with the clinking of teapots and scooping of leaves.

  Nice to start the day with him.

  And not just today. Every day.

  When he’s done, he pours me a mug. He motions for me to sit down in the living room, and he brings out his desk chair and sits next to me, sipping his willow bark tea.

  My eyes catch on the painting on the easel. I could have an entire house covered in his art, and it still wouldn’t be enough of him.

  “It’s for my mom,” he says, following my eyes. “Her birthday is coming up.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s a Korean pine; she had a huge one that she loved in her backyard when she was growing up, but since she moved to the States, she’s never lived in the right climate to grow one herself. She still has a jar of preserved pine cones sitting on her dresser that she took from the tree before she moved.”

  “She’s going to love it,” I say, and I force my voice to remain steady. I want all these stories, all these moments, all these details that make him him. I don’t want to lose them.

  “Talk to me,” he finally says, looking at me with such tenderness that I think I might cry as soon as I open my mouth.

  I swallow hard.

  “I thought I had control over my magic, but I clearly don’t. If I can lose control like that during a stupid game, I can’t even imagine what could happen during a dangerous event where I’m using all the magic I can.” I take a sip of tea, and the warmth feels good as it slides down my throat. “My magic went after you last night, and I can never let that happen again. I would never forgive myself if—if—” But I can’t make myself say the words. My unfinished sentence hangs in the air between us.

  “We’ll be extra careful going forward,” Sang says, touching my arm.

  “Careful how? There is no careful with you,” I say, my voice rising. “I care too much.”

  “I don’t know, but we can figure it out. I know we can.”

  “We’ve already figured it out. The solution is isolating me in a cabin in the woods and making sure I never use my magic around people I care about. Making sure my magic never even knows there are people I care about. That’s the solution.”

  Sang shakes his head. “That is not a solution. We’ll find another way.”

  “There is no other way!” I practically shout the words. “As long as I care about you, I can’t—we can’t—” But I don’t know how to finish the sentence.

  I can’t come near you.

  We can’t be together.

  We can’t be anything.

  I set down my tea and stand up, pacing around the room.

  He stands as well and reaches for my hands. “Clara, we can make this work. Please.”

  I shake my head, back and forth and back and forth. I finally look him in the eye, hold his gaze. “You are everything to me. And that’s why we can’t be together.”

  “Clara, please,” Sang says, his face crumbling. “Please don’t do this.”

  “You have been more to me than I ever could have imagined. I owe so much to you.”

  “No,” Sang says. “Don’t you do this.” Tears spill from his eyes and run down his cheeks, and I force myself not to reach out and wipe them away. “I love you,” he says, his voice breaking. “I love you,” he repeats, this time in a whisper.

  A sob escapes my lips, and I turn away from him and cover my mouth. I think I’ve known for a long time; I think maybe his love for me is what enabled me to love myself.

  Then a thought—a selfish, dark thought—edges its way in, the total solar eclipse becoming vivid in my mind. I turn back around and meet his eyes, red and swollen and wet.

  “Would you still love me if I weren’t a witch?” The words catch in my throat, so quiet and weak, barely a whisper. I can’t believe I’ve spoken them out loud.

  Sang’s eyes widen. He watches me, and it’s clear he’s warring with himself, trying to figure out how to respond. But his silence is for the best.

  I don’t want to know if his answer is no, and he would never tell me if his answer were yes. He thinks I’m too important.

  “I—” he starts, but I cut him off. I put my hands on either side of his face and kiss him through my tears and his.

  When I pull away, he looks defeated.

  “I would rather die than cause you harm,” I say with so much finality I can practically see the wall forming between us, an impenetrable barrier that’s impossibly vast.

  “Don’t I get a say in this? Don’t I get to decide if it’s worth the risk?” he asks through gritted teeth.

  “No,” I say.

  I look at him for several more seconds, then walk out the door.

  As soon as I do, I know I will never, not for a single moment, forget the way his face collapsed and he stared into his willow bark with swollen, angry eyes.

  I wonder if there will ever come a time when I can think of it without breaking.

  But Sang has turned me into glass, so strong, yet with the tiniest crack that’s spread from every kiss.

  Every touch.

  Every look.

  And when that crack comes under pressure, I will shatter every time.

  Summer

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “You weren’t born to be isolated.”

  —A Season for Everything

  The air is sweet, and the sky is bright. Summer rolls through campus on a wave of sunshine and heat and long days fading into short nights. The grass grows taller, flowers bloom brighter, and the sun sits higher in the cerulean sky.

  The past two weeks have gone by in a blur of training with new witches and dreaming of lightning and t
rying to remember the cadence of Sang’s breathing when I can’t sleep. I get up in the mornings, go to classes, and solemnly nod at the other witches involved in the ring of fire as if we’re in on some sort of conspiracy together. Then I do it all again.

  I let Mr. Burrows oversee my sessions, because the animosity I feel toward him is easier than the pain I feel with Sang. I train with other witches and convince myself it’s better this way. I take the long route to class so I can pass the greenhouse and make sure Sang is there, safe.

  Safe from me, and safe from my magic.

  The first time I see him feels like being crushed by a wave of longing, swept out to sea and gasping for air. Every part of me aches for him—my fingers and skin and mouth and hair, my veins and heart and lungs and bones. Summer overwhelms me, making the pain of losing him greater than it already was and the misery of wanting him stronger than before.

  I don’t know if I can make it through three months of this.

  I walk to the east garden, where my first group training session is taking place since the one in winter, when I struck Paige with lightning. I don’t feel ready for it. The ring of fire proved I haven’t mastered my magic the way I thought.

  I let my guard down, and it resulted in injury that could easily have been death.

  A group of springs is already at the edge of the garden when I get there, and even though it’s a bright, sunny day, I see the garden cast in darkness. The ghosts of Sang and me kissing, touching, holding each other send a chill down my spine.

  I blink and refocus, setting my bag on the ground and waiting for Mr. Burrows to arrive. Mr. Donovan will be running the exercise, but Mr. Burrows will watch and judge.

  “How are you feeling? Excited?” Mr. Donovan asks. He was elated when Mr. Burrows decided we’d use spring magic for my first group exercise. He’s been counting down the days.

  “I’m nervous,” I say, answering honestly. “I just want to do a good job.”

  “I’m sure you will,” he says. “Try not to put too much pressure on yourself, Clara. We’re only working with flowers—nobody’s life is on the line.”