I stood up. At my full height, I towered over Camryn. “Morgan and I have been working nonstop to fight off this disease. What have you been doing for the past few weeks?”
“Educating the masses,” Camryn replied smoothly.
It was then I noticed that eight or so witches accompanied her. They waited patiently behind Camryn with varying expressions. Some looked anxious. Others looked determined. One thing united them all. These women were outside of the immediate Summers’ lineage, distant aunts and cousins whose blood had been watered down by other genetic factors. Their ties to Morgan were weaker than that of Karma, Malia, or Laurel’s.
“What the hell is this?” I growled.
Camryn smirked. “It’s a learning experience.”
Morgan shuffled through the grass to tend to the next witch. She didn’t spare Camryn a passing glance. “Gwenlyn, get them out of here. Unless they’re helping, I don’t want them around.”
Before I had the chance to herd Camryn’s flock away from Morgan and her patients, Camryn constructed a personal ward. Her aura was a dark blue-gray, like slate, and it blended so well with the color of the sky that she almost disappeared behind it. The defense was just a demonstration. It vanished as soon as I took a step back to avoid its reach.
“See?” Camryn said, but she was not addressing me or Morgan. She spoke to the uncertain gaggle of witches behind her. “You wanted proof of Morgan’s betrayal? Here it is.”
“I don’t have time for whatever games you’re playing, Camryn,” Morgan said wearily. She checked the pulse of another drowsy witch.
“It’s no game,” Camryn hissed. “We all see the signs, Morgan. You’ve grown complacent over the years, and who’s always there to finish the work for you?” She threw me a disgusted look. “Your mini-me.”
“You’re upset because I’m helping the coven?” I asked incredulously. “Just a friendly reminder. I’m the only one of you that isn’t sick with a fever right now. If you’re the next one to drop into a coma, you’re going to have to rely on me to save you. You sure you want to go on with your little diatribe?”
“This isn’t about the curse,” Camryn spat. “This is about straying from the fundamental traditions of the Summers coven.”
Morgan finished healing the last of the immobile witches and finally stood to face Camryn. I slipped my arm through hers as she swayed, keeping her upright. She didn’t have the strength to heal six women on her own, and now she was paying for it.
“What traditions are those?” Morgan asked in the strongest voice she could muster.
Camryn’s eyes drifted down to where Morgan and I were connected at the hip. “It’s been ten years, Morgan. You aren’t Cassandra. It’s about time the coven found another leader, but we refuse to instate one that isn’t really even a Summers.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, glancing between Morgan’s enraged face and Camryn’s disgusted expression.
“Don’t play dumb,” Camryn ordered. “We all know Morgan’s grooming you to become the next coven leader.”
9
The world fell away. I forgot about Camryn, Morgan, and the other witches. Winnie’s shimmering presence was a mere distraction. The gray grass blurred into the gray trees and the gray sky as I lost myself in the simple statement.
I could not be the coven leader.
To even think of the possibility was blasphemy. In this sense, Camryn was absolutely correct. There were rules, conditions, and traditions that governed the way a new coven leader was chosen. The Summerses upheld those traditions to the highest standard, or they did until Morgan came along.
I could not be the coven leader.
First of all, I was far too young. I didn’t have enough life experience to know what to do in a position of such power. Morgan’s mother, Cassandra, was elected in her early forties. Then again, Morgan succeeded her at twenty-nine. She was the youngest coven leader the Summerses had ever had, but extraordinary circumstances called for an extraordinary solution. This was not the same. Morgan was an exception to the rule, whereas I was the rule itself. No one in their right mind would put me in charge of an entire coven.
My age wasn’t the only point of contention. There was a much larger issue at hand, the one that Camryn had already caught on to. I wasn’t really a Summers. No matter how much of my life I dedicated to this family, I would never share their blood. That was simply fact, and it automatically excluded me from the running. At least, I thought it did.
“Did you think we wouldn’t notice?” Camryn asked. “Ever since that girl showed up in Yew Hollow ten years ago, you’ve been playing favorites.”
Morgan stood stock still. Her fingers tightened on my forearm. I contained a wince as her nails dug into my skin. One thought kept me from internally combusting. Morgan had never discussed the possibility of leadership with me. Not once. This wasn’t happening. My leadership was never Morgan’s intention, no matter where Camryn’s accusations took the conversation. And yet—
“You will not rob me of this decision, Camryn,” Morgan replied. Her voice was low and rough, lit with a deadly menace. “If I conclude that Gwenlyn is best fit to run this coven following my retirement, then so be it.”
My stomach heaved. Morgan’s skin felt like fire against mine, but I couldn’t let go. Camryn’s flock broke out in disapproving mutters. Their eyes bore into me, lingering in certain places. My calf, where the witch’s mark lay in wait beneath my jeans. My forearm, where the bright blue scar reminded everyone of the ancient magic that flowed through my veins. My face, which bore no resemblance to their own features.
“She’s not one of us,” Camryn declared, voicing my own thoughts aloud.
“As you so recently reminded us, Gwenlyn has been a member of this coven for over ten years,” Morgan countered.
“She was adopted,” Camryn fired back. “She does not truly belong in this coven. Summers’ blood does not run in her veins, and no amount of mortal paperwork will ever change that.” Camryn turned her back on Morgan to pontificate to her supporters. “My sisters! For too long, we have waited in the shadows. Too long we’ve allowed our current leader to trifle with our customs. Too long we’ve held our tongues about the mistreatment and favoritism that runs rampant in this coven.”
I rolled my eyes as Camryn stepped up to an old tree trunk in order to peer over the heads of the wide-eyed witches who’d agreed to confront Morgan. Apparently, she needed a soapbox.
“I urge you to consider your options,” Camryn went on. “The girl is not one of us. If Morgan instates her as our leader, it will truly mean the end of the Summers coven. Who are we if our blood bond means nothing? Join me instead, sisters. Not only will I lead this coven to safety, but I will ensure that every witch is promised a fair and bright future in Yew Hollow.”
“How?” Morgan asked dryly.
The simple rebuttal derailed Camryn’s righteous speech. She lost her footing on the tree stump and tripped to the ground. Morgan stepped up to meet her before she could recover, dragging me along with her. We were uncomfortably close to the opposing group of witches. Instinct screamed at me to pull Morgan away. Simultaneously, I wished for Morgan to slam Camryn into the ground with an attack spell. The coven had never questioned my presence in Yew Hollow before, and I had never felt unsafe in the company of the Summers witches until now. In a matter of weeks, Camryn managed to alter their opinion of me.
“You have no chance,” Morgan said. Her words were hushed, but not because she wanted to keep them private. On the contrary, we caught every whispered syllable. Morgan’s power as coven leader did not lie in a show of bravado or arrogance—unlike Camryn’s attempted coup—but rather in her quiet rage. The witches knew she was livid. We could feel her aura pushing against us, even if she wasn’t actively employing her craft. “You have no earthly idea what it means to manage this coven. You have no experience to judge what’s best in any given situation. You have no sense to lead these women. You have no courage to do what it
is right. You have no humility to put others before your own selfish needs. You have no potential at all to do what I do.”
Morgan moved even closer to her cousin. Camryn hardly dared to breathe.
“Do not challenge me, Camryn,” Morgan warned. “Look around you. Look at the women who have spent today ensuring that this coven does not meet an early end. They wore themselves out to protect their sisters and aunts and cousins, and I will not allow you to insult them with your misdirected stand for justice. As for the rest of you—” Morgan looked over Camryn’s head to address the witches behind her. “—I am ashamed of and disappointed in you.”
Immediately, the witches bowed their heads in remorse or guilt. It was easy to stand behind a loud mouthpiece like Camryn, but when Morgan extinguished the bluster of Camryn’s arrogance, they could not deny that Morgan was their leader. They were a lesser brand of Summers witch, whereas Morgan was the true heir of the coven. The Summerses had never seen a leader like Morgan before, and no matter how much she denied it, I knew the truth. Morgan was, without a doubt, an indestructible force. She was the most powerful witch in the coven, if not the greater New England area. If not the entire nation.
“While your sisters fight for your survival, you belittle their bravery with petty acts of rebellion,” Morgan continued. She leveled a stare at Camryn, who glowered back. “Perhaps your time would be better spent aiding our cause rather than hanging onto the empty promises of a jealous adversary. Be gone now, and if you wish to regain my respect, I suggest you make yourselves scarce for the next several days. Perhaps then I will be able to meet your gazes without being repulsed by your actions today.”
The witches dispersed, murmuring to one another in defeat. My muscles relaxed as they went their separate ways. The gray world swallowed their remorseful figures one by one as they retreated from the front yard of the Summers house. Camryn too turned on her heel to make an exit, but a bright blue force field stopped her in her tracks. She glared at Morgan.
Morgan gazed back, and though she said nothing aloud, the set of her lips communicated a specific message. If Camryn had the audacity to impinge on Morgan’s authority again, she would not escape the confrontation so easily.
Morgan released the force field, allowing Camryn to saunter off after the other women. As soon as she was out of sight, Morgan slackened. Her hands shook as she leaned against me. For once, I couldn’t support her.
“I’m sorry,” I said to her. I detached myself from Morgan’s side and jogged toward the house. There was too much going on in my brain, and the one person I always counted on to talk to about these kinds of things was the same person causing some of the mayhem.
Winnie appeared in my peripheral. “What are you doing? She shouldn’t be alone!”
“She’s not,” I said, vaulting up the porch steps. At the front door, I looked over my shoulder just long enough to see Morgan sink down to sit on the ground at the base of the tree trunk. The witches she had so recently healed came to her aid. Theirs was a bond I could not hope to emulate. I tore my gaze away and punched through the front door. “But I am.”
Morgan’s scrying bowl was hidden away in her room on the third floor of the house. The third floor rippled with Morgan’s essence. Not many people visited her here. There were three rooms: a small study, Morgan’s bedroom, and the connected bathroom. It seemed modest for the leader of such a powerful coven, but all Morgan wanted was the privacy of the sloped ceilings and porthole windows. The attic rooms felt like a chapel, hushed and divine, so it was with care and grace that I rifled through Morgan’s closet in search of the scrying mirror.
The mirror was hidden in the bottommost drawer of Morgan’s dresser. I shifted aside piles of clothes, shoes, and coats to reach it. Morgan wasn’t the neatest person. She spent her time organizing the coven rather than organizing her closet. I was one of very few people that she trusted to be alone in her room. Usually, the thought filled me with pride, but today it sank into the pit of my stomach and stewed there like a bad case of food poisoning.
When I found the mirror, I sat amongst Morgan’s dirty laundry and turned it over in my hands. At first glance, there was nothing special about it. It was a simple piece of reflective glass. It had no frame or handle, and the surface was marred by age spots and tiny spiderweb cracks. It gave no clues as to when or how it had been made. I turned it to face me. The glass reflected my face but not the rest of the room. It showed a mirrored void around me, nothing and everything in the universe all at once. I looked at the scowl on my lips and my furrowed brow and the wisps of hair on my head that would never lie flat. My reflection scowled back. Then she looked over her shoulder, as if someone or something in the abyss behind her had shouted her name.
I placed the mirror face down. There was a reason scrying mirrors were hard to come by. They were dangerous pieces of equipment. Scrying itself was an imperfect art. To look at a life that was not your own was an intrusion of privacy. To use a scrying mirror was to open a portal between space and time. It was a little one, unnoticeable by mortals, but any dip in the plane of our dimension rippled outward like a rock skipping across the surface of a pond. There were rules for using a scrying mirror. Only use it at night. Never allow anyone else to consult the mirror at the same time as you. Do not get lost in an image that doesn’t belong to you. Always close the portal before you look away from the mirror.
“Is that it?”
I jumped at the sound of Winnie’s voice and pressed a hand to my racing heart. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
I held up the mirror for her to inspect, making sure to avoid eye contact with my reflection.
“Doesn’t look like much.”
“The important things never do.” I jumped onto Morgan’s bed to look through the porthole window above her headboard. Dusk was upon us. We would be able to use the mirror soon. I gestured for Winnie to follow me. “Let’s go.”
I kept the scrying mirror tucked against my shirt as we quietly tiptoed down to the first floor. The less it saw, the better. Morgan was nowhere to be seen, nor were any of her sisters. This was a relief. I wasn’t in the right mindset to speak with any of the Summerses. All I wanted was to take the scrying mirror out under the stars and look for answers. If I was the one to bring a super-powered healing witch into Yew Hollow to save the coven, maybe it would convince the Summerses that I had the same right to be here as they did.
“Where are we going?” Winnie whispered into the night as I led her out the back door and across the expanse of the backyard.
As we disappeared into the forest, I replied, “Into the dark.”
The trees closed in around us. The woods were so thick that the sky was lost overhead. The moon, which should have been close to full, was nowhere in sight. The stars were just as absent. The curse stole the night from Yew Hollow. No longer could I lay among the leaves of grass in the backyard and question the constellations about my future. Artemis could not answer me when she was too busy hunting for her moon in the empty sky.
I paused in a small clearing, where there was just enough space to sit cross-legged in the dirt. Winnie watched over my shoulder as I unwrapped the mirror from the front of my shirt and balanced it face-up in my palms. I kept my gaze perpendicular to the horizon, readying myself to consult the mirror.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Winnie asked. She gazed around the hushed clearing. “Have you done this by yourself before? I’ve heard all sorts of horrible stories about witches who’ve gotten stuck in scrying mirrors. Maybe we should ask Morgan for help.”
“No.”
I missed the lightning bugs. They had vanished with the rest of Yew Hollow’s residents. I took them for granted before. Their little specks of twinkling lights were comforting in an otherwise black night. Now it was all dark.
I took a deep breath.
“Gwenlyn,” Winnie warned. “I think we should wait—”
I lowered my gaze to the mirror. The surface was as bott
omless as the world around me. My reflection winked at me. And then I plunged headfirst into a world that wasn’t mine.
10
Morgan had taught me how to scry. We started off easy, using small bodies of water as our visual mediums. This was the safest way to learn, since any disruption of the water would break the connection between the witch and her subject. Morgan claimed scrying was an important lesson for all witches, especially psychics. It served many purposes: reflection, information, meditation. The trick was to clear your mind and focus solely on the thing you wanted to see. The concept was simple. The execution was nothing of the sort. It took years for me to learn how to empty my thoughts, to stop worrying about the world around me and dive into another one that didn’t technically exist. That was the problem with scrying. If you stayed too long or if you strayed off course, you were stuck in the nothingness between one space and the next.
Winnie’s doubts echoed in my mind as I hurtled through the mirror. No, I had never used it without supervision before. Morgan was always with me. Now it was time to learn to get along without her, so I let the void swallow me. I lost track of what I was meant to be looking for, a dangerous mistake. I refocused my intention. Windsor Falls. I needed Windsor Falls. Two hours northwest of Yew Hollow.
The town popped into existence all at once. The first thing I noticed was the moon. I could actually see it here, dancing among the stars. I lost myself for a brief moment, appreciating the cosmos. As for the town, I’d never been there before, but I could tell right away that this was the wealthier end of Massachusetts. The houses mimicked estates with sweeping lawns and towering pillars. The cars whizzing along the roads were illustrious foreign models with shiny emblems. The people were impeccably dressed in designer threads. Whoever this witch was, she had money.
I ignored the busy high street, concentrating on the image in my mind. I didn’t have much to go on in order to find our healer. Winnie’s well of information was dry. Scrying was much like performing a web search without being able to use the ten most relevant keywords. You knew what you were looking for, you just didn’t know how to find it on the first try.
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