by Mindy Klasky
“Power of silver, gathering light…”
Part of my mind was aware that there was danger in speaking the first line of our incantation aloud. We were supposed to say it together; it was supposed to add to our joined power, creating more energy through a sort of feedback loop. All too many times, the spoken word had shattered our rapport. All too often, the spell had torn us all apart.
But not this time.
“Fresh new-cut greenery, bitter and bright…”
Energy grew inside us, between us. The power was set alight by a tiny thrum of surprise—we’d never completed the second line of the spell before. We’d never reached that level of bonding.
“Purest rainwater, collected at night,
Wand of pure rowan, commanding all might.
Make strong, keep clean,
Save this witch from threat unseen.”
In another world, in another lifetime, I would have laughed aloud. The magic was spinning around us, gathering us in a circle and whirling us about as if we played an arcane game of crack-the-whip. As in that children’s game, the motion only brought us closer, only bonded us each more tightly to the other, and I could not laugh because I was drawn in by the wonder.
I pulled from Hani, and I felt an answering tug from Neko, from Kopek. I offered my power to Raven, to Emma, and I felt each of the witches accept my gift, making a present of her own distinct force. I didn’t have to think about their energy; it was simply there. My students’ power had become an extension of my own.
I’d kept my eyes closed as I chanted the spell, but now it did not matter if I opened them. Now, the power between us was strong enough that nothing as ordinary as vision could ever tear it apart.
I reached toward the rainwater flask, but it was Emma’s fingers that closed around the bottle. I started to steady the silver bowl, but it was Raven’s palm that kept the vessel even. Water poured out, and I was the liquid, swirling against the cold silver, taking on the heat of a witch’s hand.
Emma was the one who understood that water. Her powers were innately linked to it. The element spoke to her; it was her. Through my link with Emma, I became one with the water.
Together, all three of us added the mugwort. The herb began to infuse the second the fresh green leaves slipped beneath the liquid’s surface. My physical eyes could not measure the change, but my arcane senses filled with a tingling force.
Raven was the one attuned to mugwort. With every cell of her being, she sensed the bitter flavor leaching into the collected rain. She tracked the acerbic strength of the ancient herb.
I was the one who actually reached for the rowan wand. My palm closed around the smooth wood. My fingers tightened so I could stir the mixture—once, twice, three times. With each pass, the mugwort offered up more of its protective strength.
Nestling the wand on a snow-white cloth, I filled my lungs with the invisible power of our solution. The energy sparked inside me, clean and safe. Closing my eyes, I gathered together the thrumming force. I collected strength from Hani, bolstered it with reflections from Neko and Kopek.
My action bound all of us closer together, witches and familiars. An invisible web tightened around all six of us. Each twitch of power from the elements of our working ratcheted the bonds closer, uniting us until we shimmered with a single, indomitable light.
One of us, all of us, reached for the rosemary. All of us, one of us, dipped the spiked branch into the water. I, we, offered the rosemary to the east, to the elemental home of air. We, I, shook the branch three times, shedding a cascade of drops, releasing a lyrical glissando.
South was next, then west, then north. Each time the rosemary dipped into the water, it harvested the perfect power of the mugwort, the flawless force of rain. Those drops were shed in an unbroken span of cleansing, of virtue, of purity. Wherever the water passed, an arc of light remained. Gold, violet, silver—all merged into a single metallic glory. I caught my breath at the beauty, and I laughed at the ozone tang that sizzled against the back of my throat.
Emma was laughing too, and Raven. Our familiars looked on, willing partners, silenced by our ongoing draw of their energy. Beyond the circle, beyond the pure working, I was aware of David, conscious of his warding strength, his watchful gaze.
If we had been completing a real working, it would be time to move to the next step. We would have prepared the earth for the gift of rain. We would have proceeded to build the next module of our next spell, merging our powers on an even deeper level, finding the true apex of our joined strength.
But we needed more practice before we could do that. We needed to build our endurance. Even now, my fingers tingled so hard that I could not truly tell where my flesh ended, where the outside world began. I drew a breath, and I could not fill my lungs, could not truly sate my body’s need for air.
I pulled back on my bond with Hani. I felt him shift, just a little, but enough that I lost the mirrored link to Neko. Kopek fell away, too, and I was bound only to the witches. Raven rolled her shoulders, twisting the link between us, and Emma sighed deeply, like a woman emerging from deepest sleep.
I dropped my arms to my sides, and the magic faded away.
“That was incredible,” Emma whispered.
Raven nodded. “What made it different this time?”
I forced a smile, trying to act as if I’d always known we would succeed. “Practice makes perfect.”
They laughed, but I saw Emma catch a yawn against the back of her throat. I hazarded a quick glance toward David. He looked attentive, but not worried. I’d managed our strength well. We were all fatigued, exhausted even, but none of us had pushed ourselves anywhere near a point of danger.
He raised his ceremonial sword and sliced through the circle he had cast for our protection. Chanting together, we witches dispersed the final remnants of our arcane energy. We matched our words, spoke at the same time, but there was none of the wild power left.
As soon as we were through, David said, “Let’s go. Lunch for all of you. And no magic for the rest of the day.”
I let him bully us into the kitchen, and I accepted the cheese and crackers he placed before me. The familiars talked quietly among themselves, with long pauses between spoken words. I suspected they were commenting on the experience in their own magical way, with the silent communication of their kind.
Under David’s watchful eye, I made small talk with Raven and Emma. For the first time ever, I saw traces of their twin language. No words; they no longer verbalized with their private, unique tongue. But there were tiny gestures. Hints sent through glances. A constant exchange of information, attunement, focus.
I couldn’t translate all of it. I couldn’t know what it felt to be them, to be tied that closely to any other human being. But I could see ways to use the bond between them. I could strengthen it, splice it to include a third witchy power. I could rewrite the organization they had used all their lives and classify their secrets to make all of us stronger, better witches.
The next time. When we advanced to the next stage of our working.
When I sat back in my chair, Spot came over for a pat on the head. (All right, he probably came over for a bite of one of my crackers, but I wasn’t that much of a sucker.) He rested his chin on my lap and sighed deeply when I found the perfect scritching spot behind his right ear. I missed having the lumbering beast up here at the house. The kitchen looked bare without his bed in the corner. I could hardly take the Lab back from David, though. That wouldn’t be fair.
I sipped my lemonade and started to daydream about my next working with Raven and Emma. We could move beyond purification to a working that actually changed a state. Kindling candles, maybe, or even summoning rainclouds. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how it would feel to be suspended in the element of air.
Which made it all the more jarring to hear a knock at the back door. I looked at David, and he looked at me, but neither of us was expecting any visitors. He shrugged and worked the deadbolt befor
e opening the door.
“Ah,” came a voice I never wanted to hear again. Spot stiffened by my side, and I felt the growl deep in his throat, more than heard it. “I would have come earlier, if I’d known you were serving lunch.”
As my stomach tightened, David said something impossible: “Please. Come in.”
And Norville Pitt strode into the kitchen.
CHAPTER 13
MY PULSE SKYROCKETED. Why had David let Norville Pitt into our house? We were surrounded by magical protections—every door and window was guarded against astral and mundane intruders. Without an explicit invitation, Pitt could never have stepped over the threshold.
Even now, Spot interposed himself between me and the door. His hackles were raised, and his lips curled back from his teeth. David issued a curt hand gesture, but it took a repetition before Spot slunk to the floor.
The Head Clerk seemed oblivious to the canine threat. He still looked like a refugee from a television show: What Not to Wear: Coven Edition. This time, his slacks were blue serge, worn thin across his ample thighs. His white short-sleeve shirt was dingy, and his pocket protector was askew. His right shoelace was knotted multiple times.
“Ah,” Pitt exclaimed, in that voice that reminded me of light crude oil spreading over a peaceful bay. “Don’t mind if I do.” He collected a plate from the center island and started to fill it with remnants from our recuperative meal—a bunch of grapes, a handful of Triscuits, a fistful of Marcona almonds.
I cast a frantic look at David. What was he thinking of, letting his enemy stride into our midst? Was blood going to be shed on our kitchen floor?
David’s face was utterly opaque, though. A casual observer might even think he just happened to cross the room on that particular line, just happened to to take up a watchful position that kept him an identical distance between Pitt and me. If David had a plan, he wasn’t sharing it with me.
And that meant I had to take the lead. I had to pretend like this visit was absolutely ordinary. I cleared my throat and said by way of greeting, “Mr. Pitt.” I prayed he wouldn’t notice the slight quaver in my voice.
In fact, the wheezing clerk scarcely acknowledged my greeting at all. Instead, he oozed over to the kitchen table and extended a sweaty hand toward Raven. “Norville Pitt,” he said, using his free hand to smooth back his greasy hair. “No relation to Brad.”
Did the guy really only have the one pick-up line? My student, to her credit, merely shook the offered hand. “Raven Willowsong,” she said. But for the first time since I’d met her, she didn’t accompany her words with a single seductive gesture—no roll of the hips, no toss of the hair, not even a smile.
Emma submitted to the social nicety as well, offering up her own name in a flat midwestern accent. All three familiars stared in watchful silence, obviously aware—perhaps even grateful—that the Court did not consider them worth speaking to.
David poured a glass of lemonade and passed it to Pitt. I didn’t get it. David hated this guy. He was obsessed with bringing him down. Why was he acting like this visit was a present from Hecate herself? “What brings you here, Norville? We weren’t expecting you until Samhain.”
Pitt drank down half the glass before responding. “Mabon,” he said, with a toothy smile.
“Excuse me?” I injected myself back into the conversation. I knew what Mabon was, of course—the next sabbat in the witch’s calendar, less than a month away. Mabon continued the celebration of the autumn harvest that we had launched with Lughnasadh.
“Congratulations, Ms. Madison.” Pitt put his glass down on the center island so he could pump my hand.
“For what?” I barely resisted the urge to wipe my palm clean against my shorts.
“The Madison Academy is now a Class Two institution.”
“A Class Two…” I trailed off, uncertain of the significance of Pitt’s words.
But David figured things out before I did. “The Court is getting involved again?” He chose his words carefully, but I could practically hear him shout “interfering” instead of the far more mild “getting involved.”
Pitt’s smile turned my stomach. “The Court has a very special interest in the Jane Madison Academy. We couldn’t help but notice that you completed a working this morning that registered thirteen point two.”
I understood the individual words, but I had no idea what he was talking about. “Thirteen point two?”
Pitt nodded eagerly. “On the Circe scale.”
I glanced over at Neko, who offered the slightest of shrugs. David didn’t recognize the phrase either, from his narrowed eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know the Circe scale.”
Pitt tutted quietly. “Now, you won’t want to say that when your magicarium is being evaluated officially.”
Yeah. There were a whole lot of things I wouldn’t want to say under those circumstances.
David spared me the need to push for a clarification. “What has the Court devised this time, Norville?” His tone walked the narrowest of lines between curiosity and contempt.
“Why, the Circe scale is the latest metric for magicaria. It allows us to measure the combined power of all magic workers—students, instructors, and Affiliated Institutions—in a given magicarium. Your initial Circe rating, the one calculated before you signed your Charter, was one point seven five.”
“One point seven five,” I echoed. “But we hadn’t completed any workings when I signed the Charter.”
“Precisely,” Pitt agreed.
“Then how could you complete a rating?”
“Our initial assessment was based on your personal accomplishments, Miss Madison. You should be quite flattered to be included in this pilot program.”
“How many schools are in the pilot program?” David asked.
Pitt met his narrowed eyes with a slimy smile. I wasn’t surprised when the Clerk said, “One.”
David’s fingers curled into fists. I took a step forward, silently reminding him that he had to keep a grip on his temper. “What changed, then?” I asked. “Between the initial rating and today?”
“The working you completed this morning, of course. With this morning’s score of thirteen point two, the Madison Academy is now a Class Two institution.”
“That’s ridiculous!” I protested. “There were only two students added to the mix! We don’t have any Affiliated Institutions. You’re metric can’t have changed that much, just from the addition of two witches!”
Pitt clicked his tongue and shook his head. “The Court isn’t concerned with the absolute number of witches, Miss Madison. We focus on power.”
They certainly did. The brunt of their power was goading me more with every second that passed. I tried another tack. “We completed our working this morning in preparation for your inspection on Samhain. You can’t penalize us just because we’re getting better.”
“Oh, Miss Madison.” Pitt pushed his Coke-bottle glasses up his shiny nose. “It has never been our intent to penalize you.” There was just enough emphasis on the last word to expose Pitt’s ongoing conflict with David. If he regretted showing his cards so blatantly, though, he recovered quickly. “It’s certainly not a penalty to be ranked a Class Two.”
“What do we get out of it, then?” I snapped.
Pitt twisted his wrist and somehow produced a familiar sheaf of papers. It was the Charter for the Madison Academy, the document I’d first seen down on the dock. Now, though, a puffy gold ribbon was attached to the first page with a copper grommet. The festoon looked like it belonged to a kindergarten student who was voted “Most Improved” at Field Day. It bore the words “Class Two” in a flowery script.
Pitt cleared his throat and turned to a page at the back of the Charter. “Class Two institutions shall have all the rights and appurtenances pertaining to the foregoing Class One institution, including any right, title, and interest of the Magistrix in and to adjacent territories, magicaria, and unaffiliated bands of students.”
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The legalese made my head spin. “Doesn’t that mean a Class Two is the same as a Class One?”
“But you get a ribbon. And specially trained Class Two examiners, of course. It’s such a shame—not one of our Class Two Watchers is available on your previously scheduled date of Samhain.”
What a coincidence. “And I can’t hold off and test later in the year? After Samhain? Yule, maybe?”
Pitt laugh sounded like a leaf blower. “With a new program like this, the Court has to insist on completing all testing as early as possible. That’s best for everyone, you know.”
Best, how? How, exactly, was anything about this ridiculous situation best for me? But I could already imagine the made-up, jargon-filled explanation Pitt would throw my way if I protested. I was actually surprised when he said, “You could file an appeal.”
“And how do I do that?”
His smile revealed a row of shark-like teeth. “You simply complete a Notice of Appeal of Charter Review, and file it with the Court. Along with mandatory character references, of course.”
“Character references?”
“Seven people who can testify to your magic abilities and your good standing within the community.”
Gran and Clara. David and Neko. Raven. Emma. Who would I use as a seventh?
Pitt cleared his throat. “That’s seven people, of course, for every discipline you’re testing for.” He flipped through the Charter. “For the Madison Academy, that will include herblore and crystals. Runes. Spellcraft. General magical principles. Academic inquiry. Am I forgetting anything?” He pawed the paperwork. “Oh, of course, elemental magic, and advanced craft. So, fifty-six references. Of course, none can be related to you, or a current student of yours.”
With anyone else, I’d assume they were joking. But I was pretty sure Norville Pitt wouldn’t recognize a joke if it rose up from the center island and kissed him on his pursed, liver-colored lips. And still Pitt wasn’t quite done grinding my dreams to dust. “Your appeal will have to be notarized and filed in triplicate one month before your scheduled test.”