by Sarah Piper
Nat chokes back a laugh, but Carly and her aptly-named Claires don’t seem to appreciate my sense of humor.
Eh, no accounting for taste.
I pop a spoonful of brown sugar sweet potatoes into my mouth, wondering just how much more bizarre this conversation is going to get, and also, whether I should just get a stent put in my arteries now, or wait until the cheese completely blocks off blood flow to my heart.
“Anyway,” Carly says, “I was talking with the girls, and we decided you should totally join.”
“But… I don’t have a clair,” I reply, though I suppose that’s not strictly true. I’m pretty sure my empathic skills rank somewhere on that list, but I’m not about to divulge that to Carly.
“Everyone has special abilities, or they wouldn’t be at the Academy.” Carly rolls her eyes, then smiles, a bright grin that doesn’t reach her cold blue gaze. “It’s just that some people aren’t as developed. In my household, we were expected to take our magick seriously, so I started private lessons at age two. But I understand not everyone has the financial means for something like that.”
I glance at Isla and Nat. Isla’s glaring hotly at our visitor, but Nat’s got her eyes downcast, her cheeks dark with shame. Something tells me this isn’t their first run-in with the Queen of the Claires.
I want to tell Carly to fuck her merry little way all the way off to someone else’s dorm, but her energy holds me back. As much as I don’t want to feel it, I can’t help it; for all Carly’s bluster and bullshit, there’s a deep sadness in her, a longing for connection that she’s apparently not getting from her minions.
So, in an effort toward diplomacy—and not making enemies on my first day—I offer a smile and say, “Why don’t you guys pull up some chairs and join us here? We can all get to know each other a little better, start the new year off strong. Strength in numbers, you know?”
There’s a spark of hope—I can feel the shift in Carly’s energy. But then Emory clears her throat and bumps her shoulder against Carly’s, and Carly tosses her dark waves and laughs. She actually laughs, as if the suggestion that we all get to know each other is the most ridiculous idea she’s ever heard.
“We’re a coven,” Blue pipes in, twisting one of her eyebrow rings. “We’ve already got the numbers.”
“Suit yourselves, then,” I say, then turn back to Isla and Nat. “But if you wouldn’t mind un-planting your ass from our table, we’d like to finish our meal.”
“Did you just… Did you seriously just say that to me?” Carly fumes.
“As someone who quote-unquote simply knows things,” I say, “you can probably figure that out yourself.”
A chill ripples through the room.
And just like that, it seems I’ve chosen sides, planted my flag, and flipped a giant middle finger to the most powerful self-appointed coven at Arcana Academy.
Carly’s nostrils flare, and suddenly I feel like I’m on the big screen, trapped in every mean-girl movie ever made. This is the part where she tells me I’ve just made the worst mistake of my life, or I’ll regret this one day, or the clincher—do I have any idea who I’m dealing with here?
But instead, she flicks one last icy glare my way and says, “See you around, Stevie. Oh, and one more thing? Keep your slutty little eyes off Baz. He’s not available.”
She slides her ass off the table—hallelujah—and saunters away with her posse. But before they reach their table on the other side of the café, I catch Blue flicking a hand in our direction.
All three of our soda glasses tip over.
Before a single drop of liquid hits the table, the glasses upright themselves, the soda sliding back inside.
I look up to see Isla holding her hands out, faint sparks fading from her fingertips.
“Water’s kind of my thing,” she says, touching the teardrop pendant at her throat. “Three of Cups, specifically.”
It made sense, then, why she was so welcoming. The Three of Cups card always reminds me of girlfriends, of people joining together to celebrate something or support each other. There’s just something comforting about that card, and now I’m even more glad that I ran into her and Nat.
“You okay?” Nat asks, reaching across the table and grabbing my hand. “I know Carly can be a bit much.”
“I’m okay.” I let out a breath. “But guys, tell me something. Honestly.”
“Girl, what’s wrong?” Isla asks.
“Do I…” I peer up at them, my lashes fluttering dramatically. “Do I have slutty little eyes?”
“Well, I didn’t want to say anything,” Nat says, “but yeah, your eyes are basically begging for it.”
“Dial it down, eye-whore,” Isla says, and in that moment, I’m pretty sure her original assessment was right: she and Nat are definitely my people.
“I know it’s easier said than done,” Nat says, “but try not to let Carly get to you. The Claires are all from super-rich, super-witchy families whose bloodlines go back generations. They’re under the mistaken impression that money, power, and status makes them better than everyone else.”
“Unfortunately, it kind of does. In our world, anyway.” Then, tightening the leash on my cynicism, I ask, “How do you guys know so much about them already? Have you all been here that long?”
“We met them at orientation weekend last month,” Isla says. “Suffice it to say, we figured out Carly’s M.O. pretty fast. The others just kind of glommed on to her, and they’ve been inseparable ever since.”
“I don’t think they actually like each other very much,” Nat says. “That’s the sad part. But, you know, birds of a feather and all.”
“Mostly we try to stay off their radar,” Isla says. “But considering you’re the new girl—well, the newest new girl, anyway—it’s going to be harder for you.”
“But also,” I say, pointing at her with my spoon, “we’re not in middle school. So we’ve got that going for us.”
Isla shrugs, pushing away her plate. Poor woman never even got to eat before Carly spread her DNA all over the table. “Some people never outgrow it, even at a university for highly gifted magick-users.”
“Hopefully she’ll get bored of me and move on to some other drama,” I say.
Nat and Isla exchange a loaded glance.
“What does that look mean?” I set my spoon back on the plate. “I don’t know you guys well enough yet to decode your looks on command.”
“Well, it just means…” Nat cringes, then offers an apologetic frown. “Before you showed up, Carly was the most advanced first-year on campus, blessed with three affinities.”
“Everything but earth,” Isla says, imitating Carly’s fake plastic voice. “She went on about it for two days straight at orientation. Apparently she was so gifted in high school, her teachers had her tested early.”
“So then you come along, and…” Nat shrugs, leaving me to fill in the blanks.
Perfect. No wonder I’m already on her hit list. As a spirit-blessed witch, I’ve got one more elemental affinity than Carly does, and I’ve got the complete package—something she’s obviously coveting.
“So is it tattooed on my forehead?” I ask, wondering how Isla and Nat already know about my gifts. “Super-special snowflake, coming in hot?”
They both laugh.
“Welcome to Arcana Academy of the Arts,” Nat says. “I’m afraid there aren’t many secrets here.”
Across from the cheese fountain at the other side of the restaurant, the Claires rise from their table en masse, apparently changing their mind about their dinner plans. On their way out, they stalk past us, glaring at me in warning as they do. Their energy washes over me like hot lava—a twisted mix of competitiveness, jealousy, anger, and fear.
I think of what Nat said about secrets. About the Claires, and their game-playing. About the Void, and Anna Trello’s history with Mom and Dad, and Dr. Devane, who warned me not to trust anyone.
Not many secrets at Arcana Academy?
S
orry, Nat, but I’m pretty sure nothing could be farther from the truth.
Twenty-Three
STEVIE
No one told me the limit on my Academy-issued credit card, but even after eight hours of back-to-school shopping and restaurant-hopping with Isla and Nat, the thing hasn’t melted yet.
I wish I could say the same for myself, but by the time I get back to my suite on Sunday night, my whole body feels like wet goo. All I want is to make some tea, slip into a hot bath, and lose myself in Kirin’s book.
Lucky for me, Dr. Devane—patron saint of ridiculous demands—is proving to be a man of his word. Not only did he come through with some A-plus climbing gear, he also stocked my pantry with a collection that rivals my shelves at Kettle Black.
I stand in the kitchen now, staring at the overflowing shelves, not even sure where to start. There are glass jars, metal canisters, bottles, and paper sacks in every shape and size. I find more loose teas than I can count—greens and whites, three kinds of rooibos, black teas from a dozen different countries. There are bottles of floral essences and oils, herbs, spices, dried fruits and nuts, even chocolate shavings in white, milk, and dark. He got me tea strainers and scoops in multiple sizes, a tea press, and two glass kettles—one for a single brew, and a big one for company. There’s also a cute selection of cups and mugs—some fancy ones, a couple of stainless steel to-go mugs, and a few novelties, including one decorated with Bugs Bunny, with a carrot for the handle and lettering on the inside that reads, What’s up, Doc?
I laugh, my heart already warming. I hope this means he’s planning to stop by for a cup one day.
He really has thought of everything.
I’m not a fan of the phrase lady boner—I think we deserve our own expressive terminology that has nothing to do with a dude’s cock—but right now, there’s nothing else that better encapsulates the feeling.
I snap a picture on my phone, then text it to Jessa.
Doc Devane has just given me a huge LADY BONER.
There, I said it.
Jessa sends back a string of laughing emojis, and for the first time since the cops hauled me out of Kettle Black, I’m starting to feel—well, not exactly at home. But if I were the weather, my forecast would be mostly content with an eighty percent chance of happiness in the near future.
It’s the end of a long but good day, and the moment calls for decadence—my famous White Chocolate Raspberry Bliss. I grab a canister of rooibos tea, a package of white chocolate shavings, some dried orange peel, raspberry essence, and honey, then I fill the single-use kettle with filtered water.
While I wait for it to boil, I get the bathtub started, then head into the bedroom to slip into my new robe, already anticipating the luxurious bath that awaits me. But it seems the surprises aren’t over yet—on the end of my bed, there’s a black shoebox painted with silver stars and moons, a cream-colored envelope resting on top.
Inside, I find a notecard embossed with the Academy logo and Trello’s name and title.
Starla —
These items belonged to your mother. Now they belong to you. I hope you’re finding the suite to your liking. Dr. Devane has left some things for you, but please let me know if you require anything else, or if there's anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable.
— A. Trello
My hands are trembling. Other than the grimoire and the climbing gear I had to leave behind on the Grande, I never really had any of my mother’s personal belongings. She always said she was too practical for things like jewelry, or for buying books she could borrow from the library. She thought knick-knacks were useless dust collectors, and too many photos a sure way of staying stuck in the past.
So I’m struck dumb when I open the box and find just that: a treasure trove of photos and tchotchkes, some mundane, some magickal, all of it precious.
I start with the pictures—a pile of old-fashioned Polaroids with pinholes in the top, probably once stuck in a bulletin board. There are lots of Mom and various witches and mages—friends of hers, I’m guessing—posing on hikes and camping trips, at school dances and parties. My father comes onto the scene eventually, with all the cute duck-face selfies and stolen kisses you’d expect. There’s even one of them dressed for some kind of formal event, Dad in a tux and Mom in a silver gown that pours over her body like liquid mercury. They’re both glowing and happy, so young, their entire future stretched out ahead of them.
But at some point, something changed, and the happy glow started to fade. When I put the photos in a rough timeline, the transformation is a lot easier to see. Her bright eyes become haunted, her smile tight, the lines deepening in her forehead. She’s losing weight, then gaining, then losing again. My father seems beside himself, and in every photo, they get further and further away, as if some invisible force is slowly wedging them apart. There’s a manic energy to the later photos, and then they just end. No graduation ceremony, no silver Academy pins.
Who are you, I wonder, tracing my fingers over their faces. What happened here?
I keep waiting for an answer, but no matter how hard I wish it, photographs just can’t speak.
I set them aside and take the other objects out of the box, handling each one like the treasure that it is. There’s a silk pouch of small, brightly-colored crystals that look like jellybeans and give off a slight magickal buzz when I touch them. I find old sage bundles tied with lavender ribbon, a collection of raven feathers, and a carabiner that says Get Hung Up in Yosemite National Park! in bright pink script. There’s a chocolate-brown ceramic pig the size of a golf ball, with three legs and a chipped ear, and a half-melted white candle. And lastly, a necklace—an ornate Celtic cross fitted with dark silver stones. Hematite, I believe. The same stone Dr. Devane used to shield us at the prison.
I fasten the necklace around my neck, it’s magick pulsing over my skin in soft, warm waves. The protective energy feels almost parental, and I touch my fingers to it, tears slipping down my cheeks.
I used to think Mom and Dad were just always Mom and Dad, you know? Like they were born that way. Adults. Parents. People Who Knew The Way Things Worked. Even after they died, sorting through their things didn’t really give me much more insight, because everything they owned was just practical stuff from our life in Tres Búhos—clothes and shoes, dishes, basic things like that. There were no childhood photos, no old yearbooks or favorite toys or mysterious objects with even more mysterious origins.
Until now.
This little stars-and-moon shoebox contains more of my parents’ history than our entire house once held.
Looking at the photos once more, I can’t help but wonder what their friends saw. Wonder who tried to help them, whether any of those smiling faces ever noticed something was unraveling.
So often, darkness lurks in the brightest places, a smile hiding an ugly secret, a fancy dress covering the pain that the heart bears in silence.
Bailing on the bath, I brew my tea, drain the cup, and fall asleep on top of the covers, surrounded by my mother’s history and a thousand questions floating into the night.
I’m not surprised when she comes to me tonight, here in the space between asleep and awake, the mist where all things are possible.
I’m standing at the lake again, my owl spirit soaring high above, the moon glinting off the soft ripples. My toes dip into the water on the shoreline, and from the center of the lake, something emerges.
Four women, just as before. The Tarot Princesses who blessed me with their protection.
But this time, the gift they’re offering isn’t magick.
It’s my mother.
Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, dark brown waves with a streak of gray on the left side. She’s wearing a pink T-shirt coated in flour and an apron bearing her favorite saying: There’s no problem a proper cup of tea can’t fix.
She smiles when she sees me, and opens her arms to welcome me into an embrace. But she doesn’t move from the center of the lake.
“My sweet Starlight.”
Tears fill my eyes, and I try to run to her, to reach out for her, but my feet aren’t cooperating. I look down to discover my lower half has turned into a tree, my roots twisting deep into the earth.
“The worst has happened, hasn’t it?” my mother asks, her smile fading. Surrounding her, the Princesses watch us in silence.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “What’s happened?”
“You’re there now, aren’t you?” Mom shakes her head, her eyes full of regret. “I knew it would come to pass. I have always known. We never meant to leave you, Starlight. Not like this.”
“I know. You didn’t—it wasn’t your fault.”
“Nor yours.” She smiles again, tears glittering on her cheeks.
I try to reach for her, but my arms turn into tree limbs, my hands covered with bright green oak leaves that shake and quiver in the breeze.
“Now you find yourself back in the very place we tried so hard to leave behind,” Mom says, and I know she means the Academy. “Well, I suppose there was no outrunning that path, was there? Leaving was our failsafe, the escape hatch for the worst-case scenario.”
“What do you mean?” I cry out, frustration mounting. “What escape hatch? What’s the worst-case scenario? Where’s Dad—is he with you?”
I have so many questions, but everything’s getting tangled up in my head, twisting inside like the roots of this tree. The more I talk, the less I understand, my words no more than a soft rustling on the breeze.
“We tried to give you a normal life,” Mom says. “To prevent this. Yet as always, things unfold exactly as they are meant to. You could no more avoid your fate than we could avoid ours.”
She smiles, but it’s full of sorrow, nothing like the smile I hold onto in my memory. Now, it looks more like the smile in her photographs, the one she plastered on to hide the pain inside.