Mom, I miss you so much sometimes. I wish I could call you and tell you about the crazy day I’m having!
But the crazy day wasn’t over yet.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the wooden door bound in silver and entered the Elementary Casting classroom.
* * *
The Elementary Casting teacher introduced herself as “Ms. Yasmeen” and she had carrot red hair, a beaky nose, and a stick-thin figure swathed in a crushed red velvet cocktail dress. The dress seemed like a rather eccentric choice to teach class in and the color clashed horribly with her hair but she didn’t appear to give a damn.
“Everyone have a seat, have a seat,” she directed in a loud, clear voice that reminded me of a bugle call.
I was about to sit in one of the chairs—which were arranged in a circle to leave the middle of the large room empty—when she crooked one skinny finger at me and motioned me to her desk in the corner of the room.
“Miss Latimer,” she said, looking me up and down. “Am I to understand that you are a direct descendant of Corinne Latimer, founder of the Windermere Coven?”
Windermere Coven? Where had I heard that name before? Suddenly I remembered—wasn’t it the coven Nancy Rattcliff had bragged her mother was the head of?
“Um…I don’t know,” I admitted, feeling abysmally stupid. “I mean, I know my one of my ancestors was named Corinne but I don’t really know anything else about her.”
“Hmm…” She tapped a purple gel pen against her teeth thoughtfully. “I see you have been kept ignorant of your heritage,” she said at last. “Might I recommend that you look into taking a History of Local Magic class? It would be especially beneficial to someone with your family background.”
“I’ll try,” I said cautiously, remembering that I hadn’t even been able to get myself into AP English that morning—which seemed about a thousand years ago now.
She nodded. “All right. Find a seat—class is about to begin.”
I found a seat in the middle of two girls who appeared to be eleven and twelve respectively and Ms. Yasmeen came to stand in the center of the circled chairs and began.
“Now, as we all know, magic is about manifesting,” she said. “And what is manifesting? Anyone?”
The eleven-year old beside me raised her hand promptly.
“Yes, Miss Canes?” Ms. Yasmeen raised one carrot-red eyebrow at her.
“Manifesting is making things happen or appear by magical means rather than by physical effort,” the little girl recited.
“Very good.” Ms. Yasmeen nodded. “And for many witches—most of them, in fact—a big part of manifesting or ‘flaming up’ is being able to tap into the inherent magical power inside them. That is where this class comes in. This semester, I will teach you how to find the core of magic within you and bring it out by various means. Now, raise your hands, any of you who have ever called the Circle before.”
About a dozen hands went up, including the girl who had defined “manifesting” correctly.
I, of course, had to keep my hands folded in my lap. I was beginning to feel like an idiot—an old idiot, at least compared to my classmates—which wasn’t a feeling I was used to. I had been in all college fast-track courses since middle school—it was weird and wrong-feeling to be in a class where I knew absolutely none of the course material.
“Very good. Miss Terren, Miss Dulcimer, Miss Prudence, and Miss Gothell,” Ms. Yasmeen said pointing to four of the girls. “Please place yourselves in the center of the room. No, I do not care which corner you call as long as you call it correctly,” she said when two of the girls asked about their places. “Are you ready? Good—then we can begin.”
She went to the center of the circle, bringing a fat, white, four-wicked candle on a stand about three feet high. She placed it in the exact middle of the four girls, who had formed a neat square and then stepped out again.
“Beginning with the North, call your corners,” she directed them. “When the circle is complete, each one of you will step forward one at a time and light one wick of the candle. Go.”
Watching all this, I wondered what in the world was going on. Was this class just about learning pagan rituals? And if so, how could that help us get to the “core of magic” within us as Ms. Yasmeen had said? If I even had a core of magic, that was. I was probably a Null, like Avery’s mother.
And then the ritual began and I made myself stop and take notes on what was taking place. After all, there might be a quiz on this eventually and as a student, I was nothing if not conscientious and prepared.
“Hail to the guardians of the watchtowers of the East. Spirits of Air, powers of Thought,” the first girl said clearly. “I call upon you to lend your essence to this rite.”
“Hail to the guardians of the watchtowers of the South. Spirits of Fire, powers of Will. I call upon you to lend your essence to this rite,” the second girl said.
“Hail to the guardians of the watchtowers of the West. Spirits of Water, powers of Emotion…” the third girl went on as I scribbled as fast as I could in the brand new notebook which had been provided along with the nice black leather backpack which matched my uniform.
“Hail to the guardians of the watchtowers of the North,” the last girl intoned slowly. “Spirits of Earth, powers of Stability. I call upon you to lend your essence to this rite.” She stepped forward to the four-wicked pillar candle in the middle of the circle. “I conjure ye, O Circle of Light to be a temple between the worlds. In the name of the Silver Lady and the Golden Lord. Wherefore do I bless and consecrate thee, So Mote It Be.”
Then she leaned forward and blew gently on one of the wicks of the candle. It smoked for a moment and then lit, as though she’d used a match on it instead of just her breath.
I had to stifle a gasp. After seeing Avery’s elaborate display of magic at lunch, I shouldn’t have been so surprised, I guess. But there was something about the fire—about the elemental nature of the magic—that did something to a deep place inside me. A place I hadn’t even known was there before.
When I saw a flame spring to life, I felt the small hairs at the back of my neck stand up and a surge of something went through my entire body—I didn’t know what. I couldn’t name it. It felt like a voiceless yearning inside—a longing for something which ought to be mine but wasn’t.
I can’t describe it any better than that—all I knew was that it affected me more than anything else I’d witnessed or been through that whole long, strange day.
Except maybe the moment when I had touched Griffin and felt the key at my throat spring to life.
Speaking of the key, it was throbbing again—beating between my breasts like a second heartbeat. I put my hand to it to still it, almost caressing it like a small, frightened animal I had to soothe.
It’s all right…it’s going to be all right, I thought at it as, one by one, the other three girls stepped forward and lit their wicks in the same way. Finally the candle was burning brightly but still Ms. Yasmeen did not dismiss the four students who had called the circle.
“You must not leave a Circle whole when you are finished with your rite,” she lectured. “It is disrespectful to the Goddess, whose power you are calling upon.”
I raised my hand and she nodded at me.
“Yes, Miss Latimer?”
“I thought you said we were calling on the core of magic within ourselves?” I said, questioning. “Not a, um, Pagan deity.”
“And where do you think that core of magic comes from?” Ms. Yasmeen inquired, raising one orange eyebrow at me. “The Goddess lends her strength and magic to all the Others, though it is the Sisters who commune with her most directly.”
“I see,” I mumbled, and made a note of it in my notebook.
“If you’re worried this will be on the test, don’t be.” Ms. Yasmeen sounded amused. “There is very little written work in this class. You will earn your grade through demonstrations of proficiency. Now girls,” she went on, talking to the four students who had call
ed the Circle in the first place. “Dismiss your circle and let us move on to the next four students.”
The girl who had been the first to light her wick, stepped forward again.
“May the Goddess shine her light upon what we have done in her presence here,” she intoned. “By her will, I close this Circle and dismiss the powers that we adjured to come. Be Ye gone—so Mote it Be.” Leaning forward, she carefully blew out only the wick she had lighted.
The three other girls followed suit and went back to their seats while Ms. Yasmeen nodded in approval.
“Very good—an excellent first Circle. This class is off to an auspicious start,” she said. “Now then—who’s next?”
Four by four, she called students forward to repeat the ritual and every time they called the Circle and lit their wicks perfectly. By the time I was called, in the last group, long runnels of white wax had dripped down its formerly pristine sides and the round stone room was filled with the smell of whatever herbs had been used to scent the candle—vanilla and jasmine and cinnamon, I thought.
I was the last person to call my corner—“Hail to the guardians of the watchtowers of the North. Spirits of Earth, powers of Stability…” But when I said the last words in the ritual and stepped forward to blow on the wick in front of me…nothing happened.
I heard a murmur run around the room and felt a flush of heat rise to my cheeks. This couldn’t be happening to me. I was a straight A student—I had never failed at anything! Even in my most hated subject—math—I still managed to find a way to make the grade.
Closing my eyes, I repeated the last words of the ritual loudly and firmly, “I conjure ye, O Circle of Light to be a temple between the worlds. In the name of the Silver Lady and the Golden Lord. Wherefore do I bless and consecrate thee, So Mote It Be.”
Then I blew on the wick with all my might, willing it to light, picturing a flame springing to life in my mind as the black key throbbed between my breasts.
Again, nothing happened.
Which seemed wrong—completely and utterly wrong. And not just because I was usually a straight A student.
This ritual—this power that I could feel all around me, so palpable I could almost reach out and touch it—ought to be mine. I was sure of it. I never would have thought so before—never would have dreamed that I might have—or should have—any kind of supernatural powers. I would have thought the idea was crazy…bizarre.
Now it seemed bizarre and wrong that I didn’t have any powers—not even enough to light a candle.
The other students in the class were murmuring again and the three who had called the circle with me—all at least four or five years younger than me—were looking at the teacher to know what to do.
Ms. Yasmeen was staring at me in apparent concentration, a frown between her bright orange eyebrows as though she couldn’t quite figure me out. At last she waved a hand at the class.
“That is enough. Miss Tenbrook, dismiss the Circle. Even a partial Circle must be respected.”
The girl to my left did as she was told, speaking the words even though there was no fourth candle flame to blow out. Then the bell chimed and the girls all began to gather their things and move to the next class.
My cheeks were still burning with shame and my body throbbing with frustration as I, too, went to get my backpack and blazer, which were hanging on the back of my chair. Inside I felt like a bottle of Coke someone had shaken and shaken until it was ready to blow and yet I was unable to release the pressure that had been building in me from the first moment I had seen the very first candle wick flame to life.
“Miss Latimer, please come see me before you go.” Ms. Yasmeen’s clear, bugle voice cut through my frustrated thoughts as I shoved my notebook and pen savagely back into my pack. Shouldering the pack, I went reluctantly over to her desk, feeling as ashamed as though I had just made a big fat F on a test.
“Ms. Yasmeen,” I said quickly, before she could even speak. “I don’t think this is the right class for me. I think I must be a Null—that’s what I’ve been classed as, anyway—and I think it’s probably a correct classification. Maybe…maybe I should ask to be transferred to a Norm studies class in place of this one for this period.”
All the weird terms rolling off my tongue would have been complete gibberish to me only that morning. But now, thanks to Emma, Kaitlyn, and Avery, I at least had a grasp on what this place was all about. And it was clear I wasn’t going to fit in here—at least, not the magical side of the Academy.
Ms. Yasmeen waited until I was finished, leaning back against her desk with her arms crossed over her chest and eyeing me with her eyebrows raised as I spoke my piece.
“Is that really what you want, Megan?” she asked quietly, surprising me by using my first name. “To leave the magical core of yourself in darkness and never shine a light on it at all? To live your life as a Norm with no knowledge of your heritage? Because you can choose that if you wish—though I do not recommend it.”
“No!” I exclaimed, surprising myself. “But I think it’s clear I don’t have a magical core—no matter what my heritage is!”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said coolly.
“I couldn’t even light a candle with magic,” I said, frowning. “What other evidence do you need?”
“I would wager that before this morning, you had no notion that lighting a candle with magic was even possible. You thought magic was a fairy tale—a foolish myth. Am I right?” she demanded.
“Well…yes.” I nodded uncertainly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that every other student in your class was able to do it and I couldn’t—and all of them are younger than I am.”
“Some of the greatest practitioners of our art are late in coming to their power,” she said mysteriously. “Don’t give up on yourself so easily, Miss Latimer. Keep coming to class and keep taking notes. Even if the incantations we practice here do not work for you right away, they may stand you in good stead in the future.”
I didn’t know what to say to this. It seemed like a waste of both time and effort—like trying to get blood out of a stone. If I didn’t have magic in me, it wasn’t like I could somehow create it. It struck me that magical power was a little bit like having perfect pitch—either you had it or you didn’t and you couldn’t somehow learn it, no matter how hard you tried.
But Ms. Yasmeen’s eyes were burning into me and somehow I couldn’t tell her no.
“All right,” I mumbled at last. “I…I’d better go. I’ll be late for my last class.”
“I will see you tomorrow then,” she said nodding. “Blessed Be.”
“Blessed Be,” I muttered, feeling like a fraud, and then I fled.
13
Running down the hallway, I fumbled in my bag and came up with my crumpled schedule again. Because I had a late lunch period, I had finished almost all my classes for the day. There was only one left but I couldn’t read it because the ink was smudged. I was, however, able to make out the room number—it was located in the hallway between the North and East towers, almost exactly across the campus—or rather, castle—from the Elementary Casting classroom.
I had spent too much time talking to Ms. Yasmeen and I hurried down the corridors as fast as I could. Even so, I heard the second bell chime and knew I was late before I finally skidded to a stop in front of the plain wooden door.
Great—I didn’t even know what class it was and I was late for it. Trying to be quiet, I eased open the door and stepped into the classroom—only to find that all eyes were on me.
“Now is probably a good time, class, to let you know that I will not tolerate tardiness,” the teacher—a plump woman in her forties with black hair pulled back into a neat ponytail—proclaimed. She was wearing a hairnet and an apron and glaring at me as though I had just offered her a mortal insult.
I thought about trying to excuse myself by saying that I had been talking to my last period teacher but I sensed that wasn’t going to fly here. Instead,
I ducked my head and murmured, “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t,” the teacher remarked crisply. “And to be sure it doesn’t, you will be staying after class to clean everyone’s dirty dishes and pans.”
“Dirty dishes and pans?” My head jerked up and I looked around, realizing that a row of ovens lined one side of the classroom and instead of desks there were tables, all fitted out with mixing bowls and baking pans, as well as other baking paraphernalia.
What in the world? I wondered, looking around. What kind of class was this?
“Please take a seat,” the teacher said, pointing to an empty chair at one of the tables in the back. “And for those of you who were on time, thank you for coming and welcome to Home Economics.”
14
Home Ec. I can’t believe that bitchy secretary actually put me in Home Ec! How dare she stick me in this stupid class when there are a million other more important things I could be taking?
Chemistry, for instance. Or even that History of Local Magic class that Ms. Yasmeen had recommended. Anything but Home Ec which would look abysmal on my college applications and made me feel like a girl whose only ambition was to grow up, settle down behind a white picket fence, and pump out 2.5 kids.
I fumed as I sat at my table, only halfway listening as the teacher—Mrs. Hornsby—instructed us in today’s assignment, which turned out to be making chocolate chip cookies. I was going to go get this changed, I vowed to myself. I was not going to allow myself to be railroaded into not one but two bad classes that I would have to put up with all year long!
Then I heard whispering coming from the front of the room and my name—Latimer—spoken in a distinctly unfriendly tone. Looking up, I saw three familiar faces and my heart sank down to my shoes.
Nancy Rattcliff and the two other girls who made up the “Weird Sisters” were sitting at the front of the class, looking back at me. Nancy had a malevolent gleam in her dark eyes.
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