by Sarah Piper
I’m crushing hard on this woman, and she’s so caught up in Kirin and Baz, she can’t even see it.
And I’m too much of a chicken shit to admit it. Talk about your feelings? Yeah. Great advice, Ani.
She’s probably right about the sharing thing, but I can’t help but think it’d be different for Kirin and Baz. For me, too, if the opportunity ever presented itself. We’re brothers, after all. Maybe not by birth, but in all the ways that count.
I close my eyes, cutting off my daydream before that bus veers any closer to crazytown than it already has. Brothers or not, none of us have any business getting mixed up with Stevie like that. Yeah, she’s part of this thing too, but romantic entanglements—casual or not—have a way of complicating everything.
I kind of see her point about not getting involved with people you like.
“Stevie, listen. If you really—”
Both of our phones ding at the same time—a chime that’s reserved for emergency Academy correspondence.
We exchange a worried look, then pull out the phones. It’s an email from Anna Trello.
Esteemed Witches and Mages of the Academy,
It is with a heavy heart that I’m reporting this grim news. Danika Lewis, the witch arrested in Taos two weeks ago for allegedly murdering her own children in a blood sacrifice, has been sentenced without trial to die for those crimes—crimes she most certainly did not commit.
Moreover, for the first time since magick became known in the wider world and our community fell under close public scrutiny, the authorities have decided to broadcast the execution on live television.
It is scheduled for this evening at 6:00 PM.
She will be hanged, as the officials wish to make a bold statement about the dangers of witchcraft by stoking long-buried but not forgotten embers into the raging fires of corruption and control.
To say this is a horrible, damnable offense is a gross understatement. But at this time, we are nearly powerless against such reckless, sanctioned hatred.
I say nearly powerless, because even at our lowest moments, the fight is far from over. I do not want any of us to take this as the final word of law, or as proof that we are somehow tainted, evil, or inhuman. We can reclaim our power—slowly, perhaps—but great change often moves in seemingly imperceptible increments. The strides we make now will ensure our children and grandchildren can openly embrace their magick and live their lives without fear of retribution.
To that end, I’m asking all students to recommit to your studies with renewed passion and determination. I’m asking all faculty members to recommit to our students with renewed promise to guide them through these difficult times, and all the difficult times still to come.
And I’m asking our entire Arcana Academy family to come together now, to support one another, to hold tight to the magick that connects and bonds us all as witches, mages, and gifted humans.
A vigil will be held in the Hall of Remembrance tonight during the broadcast. I realize this will be a difficult thing to observe, but it is our hope that by doing so together, we may draw strength from one another and weather this storm, as our kind has always weathered such travesties.
Attendance is not required, of course. We encourage all students and faculty members to practice good self-care and decide for yourselves whether or not you’d like to participate in the group ritual or even to watch the broadcast at all.
If you are able to join us, please meet at the Hall entrance by 5:45 PM. Black candles will be provided to all who wish to light one for Danika, or for anyone else you may wish to remember at this time.
As many of you know, one of our first-year witches, Amelia Weatherby, is Danika’s niece. Not only has she suffered the death of three of her young cousins, but her beloved aunt will now be executed. We ask that you keep Amelia and her family in your hearts.
Counselors will be available during the broadcast and for the rest of the academic year for any students or faculty members who wish to talk about the tragedy or about any anxieties or emotional difficulties you may be struggling with.
Please know that you are not alone. We will get through this together, as a community and a family.
Sincerely,
Anna Trello, Headmistress
Arcana Academy of the Arts
Forty-Six
STEVIE
There is only one Tarot card drawn today, in my bedroom and in all the rooms and suites across campus.
Death. Literal and figurative, for as Danika loses her life tonight, humanity loses something too—itself, a day of reckoning that will forever separate our time into its distinct before and after.
The Hall of Remembrance is a large chapel and museum on the south end of campus, dedicated to honoring the departed as well as the Academy’s past. Carved statuary depicting the Academy’s first professors lines the wall, and in the back, a separate chamber includes a huge scale model of the entire campus, including a working replica of the fountain. With high vaulted ceilings, stained-glass windows, and the scent of incense permeating the air, it immediately inspires reverence and peace.
Tonight, the chapel is packed with witches and mages, all of us sitting shoulder to shoulder, some standing in the back, everyone holding a single black candle, a sea of flames flickering in the darkness. Headmistress Trello makes no announcement or welcome; she stands somberly at the front with the other professors, including Dr. Devane.
There is no talking, no whispers, no fidgeting. Only the quiet hush of those gathered in mourning.
In fear.
At 5:55 PM, a large screen rolls down at the front of the room. Five minutes later, the broadcast begins, the news ticker scrolling beneath.
It’s on every channel.
The skies in Taos are overcast, a light mist rolling across a green field. Many people have gathered before a large wooden platform that looks hastily erected, a lone man in a dark gray suit standing in the center. In the distance, the square, nondescript buildings of a prison loom, barbed wire curled along the top, armed snipers positioned at intervals.
Beside the man on the platform, the noose swings, a terrifying silhouette against the gray sky.
Among the assembled crowd, someone is selling popcorn, another selling beer.
My stomach churns inside, and next to me, Nat sniffles, knowing her family friend in Portland may soon face the same fate.
Seated on Nat’s other side, Isla puts an arm around our friend, and together we squeeze in close.
On the screen, an armed guard escorts a bound woman down a path across the grass, and up a small set of stairs leading up to the platform. Members of the crowd—fellow humans—shout and curse, throwing rotten fruit and beer cans and dolls tied with nooses.
“Dead witch walking!” they shout and spit. “Burn in hell, wicked cunt!”
I can’t help but remember my brief time in prison, the way the other inmates—fellow humans—would chant and throw things at me, too.
Camera flashes pop, the media jostling for better angles.
I take a shuddering breath, keeping the tears at bay.
From the row behind me, Ani reaches out, squeezes my shoulder. I touch his hand, and the first few tears escape.
The man on the platform glances out over the crowd, and as the woman is led to the noose, the rope slipped around her neck, he begins.
“Danika Beth Lewis,” he booms into a microphone clipped to his lapel, his voice echoing across the field. “You have been convicted on multiple counts of public witchcraft, magickal malicious intent, magickal abuse by a person in a position of trust, and murder. There is no atoning for these crimes. Let your sentence be a warning to all who seek to follow in your dark footsteps: rest assured, those footsteps will lead them right here.”
The man then launches into a half-hour-long sermon on the dangers of witchcraft—a sermon I tune out, focusing my attention instead on Danika, on her face, on her eyes, still fierce despite everything she’s endured.
Her child
ren are dead.
Soon, she will join them.
When he’s finally finished extolling the dangers of magick and all who practice this tool of the devil, he turns to Danika, his voice laced with contempt.
“Danika Lewis, do you have any last words?”
At this, she looks into the cameras, tears streaking silently down her face, and makes her final mark on this world.
“Fucking fight!”
The man—judge, jury, and executioner—turns away from her and presses a button on a remote in his hand. The part of the platform beneath her feet collapses.
And Danika Beth Lewis, mother and wife and witch and human being, falls to her death.
It’s not quick. It’s not painless.
When she finally stops kicking, when her body stills and her eyes bulge wide, when her bladder empties, we know it’s finally over.
Here in the Hall of Remembrance, candles flickering in the darkness, our souls connected by our shared pain and shared determination, all of us release a collective breath.
And though no words are uttered, I know we’ve all just made the same silent promise.
We will honor her life. Remember her words.
Fucking fight.
Back home, my suite has never felt so empty, so sad. I turn on all the lights and set out candles for Danika, then set the kettle to boil, returning to that one familiar comfort.
There’s no problem a proper cup of tea can’t fix.
But just before the water boils, there’s a chime at the door.
I peer into the security monitor and see an unexpected visitor, and I immediately open the door.
“Dr. Devane?” I whisper, as though he’s not really here at all, as though I can’t trust my eyes.
“I thought maybe you shouldn’t be alone tonight.” His eyes are bloodshot, his hair disheveled, the faint but unmistakable scent of whiskey lingering on his breath, and my heart melts. A tear tracks down my cheek, and we stand there in awkward silence, my mouth unable to form the words I feel inside.
“Perhaps I misjudged.” Doc offers a sad smile, then lowers his eyes. “If you’d rather I—”
“No.” I take his hand and pull him inside, close the door behind him, and wrap him into a hug.
He stiffens at first, then slides his arms around me, holding me tight. He presses a kiss to the top of my head and breathes in my scent. I don’t want to let him go, and I’m pretty sure he feels the same way. We stay like that for several silent moments until the door chimes again.
This time when I open it, Kirin, Baz, and Ani stand before me.
“None of us wanted to be alone tonight,” Baz says, and I stand aside and invite them all in, hugging Baz first, and then Ani.
Kirin is last. He closes the door behind him, and holds out a bouquet of pink-and-white stargazer lilies wrapped in cellophane.
Ignoring the flowers, I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, fighting the raw emotion bubbling up inside. It’s the first I’ve felt his warmth since that night in the library—the first I’ve even seen him—and as he slides his arms around me, cellophane crinkling against my back, I press my ear to his chest and listen for the strong, steady beat of his heart—the beat I felt when he kissed me in the library. When he made the world explode before my eyes.
The guys settle in on the living room sofa and chairs, and I put Kirin’s flowers in water and swap out my single-size kettle for the company one.
I don’t have to ask what kind of tea to make tonight. Vanilla chamomile, with a dash of cinnamon and a spoonful of wild honey—soothing and comforting, something that feels like the hug we all so desperately need.
As horrifying and depressing as it is, we can’t seem to turn off the news coverage, the five of us gathered in front of the television like voyeurs peering in on a reality no one wants to believe exists.
“Officials in New Mexico tonight made grim history when they carried out the first live broadcast of an execution for the crime of public witchcraft,” the newscaster says. “Danika Beth Lewis, age thirty-seven, was hanged for her alleged crimes today—crimes for which she was arrested just two short weeks ago. No trial was held.”
Cut to the platform, still standing in the field with the prison looming behind it. Gruesomely, her body was left as a warning, now drenched in rain. Four men stand guard as revelers mill around at the platform, drinking and taking selfies.
A journalist is already speaking with one of them—a woman who looks about the same age as Danika, dressed in a T-shirt that reads Hell is for Witches.
“People claim that twenty witches were executed during the Salem Witch Trials, an additional four dying in prison,” the woman says, like she’s some kind of expert. “But that’s not strictly true. It’s important to remember that twenty people were executed—regular people accused of witchcraft by religious fanatics. Perhaps some of the accused practiced the dark arts, but we can’t know that for sure. The difference now is that we know witches exist. We know how dangerous they are—for a fact. We have no need for fanciful testimony and fanaticism. Witches and mages are the greatest threat our country faces at this time.”
“More than terrorism?” the journalist asks. “War?”
“Witchcraft is terrorism,” she insists.
“Plenty of witches and mages live peaceably in our communities,” the journalist says, “and have done so for long before we knew they existed. Surely they can’t all be terrorists.”
The woman’s jaw ticks, her face turning red and blotchy. “The only way to ensure our children will be safe is to completely eradicate magick from this world. Since none of us know how to do that, the next best thing is to eradicate those who wield it. Unfortunately, we can’t just go around shooting them on site.” She laughs, as though we should all be in on this joke.
The journalist says nothing.
Cut back to a closeup on the execution site, the black silhouette of her body swinging from the gallows like something out of a seventeenth-century Puritan nightmare.
Baz changes the channel.
It’s the same show on every one—revelers celebrating her death. Mocking her. Talking heads extolling the dangers, debating the legalities, speculating.
No one defends us.
No one dares.
Finally, Dr. Devane turns it off, and we all let out a sigh of relief.
I wash the teacups, including Doc’s Bugs Bunny mug, and Baz tries to make us something to eat with whatever randomness he finds in my fridge. But in the end, no one is hungry.
No one has much to say, either. We all seem to understand that ours is a temporary truce, a reprieve on our fighting and misunderstandings, on all the secrets and unsaid words.
Eventually, we fall asleep together on the living room rug, our legs all tangled up, my head on Ansel’s chest, Baz’s arm draped across my waist, Kirin stretched out on the couch above, his hand skimming my shoulder. Even Dr. Devane stays with us, perched on a chair by the window, keeping silent watch.
And in the hours that follow, I sleep soundly, my secretive, imperfect, infuriating—and yes, compassionate, thoughtful, and kind—mages a protective shield keeping the nightmares at bay.
Keeping my heart safe.
Maybe it’s just for tonight, but I’ll take it.
Forty-Seven
STEVIE
Classes are canceled for the next week, the administration deciding we need the time for mourning and reflection, for gathering our strength.
Amelia has officially dropped out of the Academy to be with her family. No one knows if she’s planning on coming back next year, or ever.
I don’t blame her.
The horrible murder of Danika Lewis gives new meaning to my work, and even on these days set aside for rest and contemplation, I find myself in the library archives with my own Tarot cards, scrutinizing Mom’s research, comparing my translations, asking the cards for guidance.
Sometimes I wonder if this is how Mom felt, frantically scribbling notes, flipp
ing cards, desperate to make a connection, to find the single unifying thread that would finally explain all of the crazy visions.
Today, after a quick break for lunch, I return to the archives and set out the notebooks I’m working on, along with Journey Through the Void of Mist and Spirit, the authorless book I still can’t figure out. I feel like the answer is right before me, hiding in plain sight among these seemingly unfinished words. But no matter how long I stare at them, they just keep eluding me.
I pull out my Tarot cards, give them a good shuffle. Since I started using this deck in earnest, my old randomly-vanishing cards haven’t appeared. It seems these have taken their place, which is fine by me. I prefer getting the messages when I’m ready for them rather than, say, waking up in a bathtub full of scary-ass cards of doom.
“What am I missing here?” I turn over three cards.
Two of Swords, Two of Cups, Two of Wands.
Curious about the repetition, I turn over two more.
Two of Pentacles and the High Priestess, the Major Arcana whose corresponding number is also two.
I record the reading in my Tarot journal. Two. Something with twos. Balance? A decision? Two pathways? I look at each card in turn. The High Priestess is telling me to look within, to search my own hidden depths for the answer, but nothing comes.
I don’t know how long I’m in there, poring over the cards, poring over the notes, my eyes going blurry. I’ve got my face buried in the middle of the Journey book when a familiar scent drifts to my nose—storms in the summer, clean and electric.