Larkstorm

by Dawn Rae Miller

  With my shoulders sagging, I stop in front of an open seat.

  “Is this seat taken?” I ask the group of young witches.

  They keep their blond heads turned away from me as they gather their plates and leave. My breath shakes as I inhale and my lip trembles slightly. I’m acutely aware the witches sitting around me fall in two camps: Those who pretend I’m not here, and those who scowl and glare at me.

  I’d give anything to have Kyra with me right now. Or Maz. Who am I kidding? Even Ryker and Lina would be better than this.

  As I nibble away in isolation, I survey the massive tent village. It extends from the base of the hill, where the house sits, all the way to the edge of the forest, which leads down to the lake. There must be a thousand tents, easily.

  Judging from the flags fluttering on the tents, the village is divided into four quadrants—red and blue at the far back with yellow and orange closest me. Green—the color of our society—dominates the middle where the four corners touch.

  Unexpectedly, Mrs. Channing slides into the seat across from me. Sunlight glints off her emerald green dress. A quick glance at my own lavender sundress confirms its plainness.

  “Are you almost finished? You’re meeting with Dasha in ten minutes on the West Lawn.” She points toward the far side of the house.

  A group of young children stands off to our left, engaged in a rowdy conversation. The colors of their tunics mix together like a melting box of crayons. Suddenly, one of them darts past us, toward the breakfast line. The rest of them shout and cheer as he clears our table.

  They’re afraid of me, too.

  I frown at my plate.

  “Do you think she’ll be okay working with me?” The poor strawberries on my plate stand no chance against the sharp tines of my fork. I stab at them, smashing some and spearing others.

  “Dasha is excited to work with you. We all are,” Mrs. Channing says. I almost believe her. Almost.

  A flash of copper over her shoulder draws my attention. A pretty witch, not much older than me, watches us. She doesn’t even try to hide it when I stare back at her. Instead she flashes a wide smile and lifts her hand, fingers wide, in greeting.

  Well, that’s…different.

  “You’ll like her. She’s an expert in her field.” Mrs. Channing draws me back into our conversation.

  “Great!” I feign enthusiasm. No one has ever accused me of being a bad student, and I’m not going to let them start now. I glance over Mrs. Channing’s shoulder again, but the young witch is gone. “Guess I should head over.” I scoop up my plate, and without waiting for a response from Mrs. Channing, stand up.

  She touches my arm. “Give me a moment.”

  There’s a softness in her voice that wasn’t present yesterday. I wait but don’t sit down.

  She sighs. “I’m sorry about my behavior yesterday. It wasn’t fair of me to expect you to not become upset. Perhaps I let my fear get the best of me, but you did destroy my home.”

  Her words sound like the Mrs. Channing I’ve always known. But something feels wrong, forced. My eyes taper into two thin slits.

  “I’ve always liked you, Lark, even though I’ve known who you truly are since the day you were born.” She trails off. “There are many people who don’t care for you. Please be careful.”

  And then she’s gone. The seat she occupied, empty. I swivel my head around, looking for her, but it’s no use.

  Well, it wasn’t a big revelation. The huge empty space around me is a good indicator of my popularity.

  Not wanting to draw more attention to myself, I slink along the edge of the lawn—away from the parting sea of witches—toward the back of the house.

  A few cheerful bars of Alouette follow me as I walk and I hum along, trying to remember the words. Something like:

  Alouette gentille Alouette

  Alouette JT plummery

  Or something like that. I don’t remember much. Ms. Jensen would be upset.

  Maybe it’s my imagination but people trail after me. They keep well back, probably just in case I go crazy and fling some Dark magic at them or something.

  A nagging voice, deep inside me, screams for me to run. That this is a perfect opportunity for me to get the heck out of here. That if I left now, Beck would be safe and I’d be…what? What would I be?

  Still alone. That’s what.

  Dasha, or at least who I suspect to be Dasha, waits for me in the middle of the large lawn. She’s facing the tent village and fidgeting with gold bangles that cover her arms from wrist to elbow, obscuring the sleeves of her red dress.

  “Dasha?”

  She jumps. And screams.

  “Oh my. I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I—you—I wasn’t expecting you from that direction.”

  The bangles on her arms clank.

  “I’m so sorry.” This isn’t a good start. “Really. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to avoid all that.” I point to the throng of witches filling the East Lawn.

  She swallows visibly. Mrs. Channing lied. Dasha, like everyone else, is terrified of me. I wonder how she had this job forced on her.

  “Well, now. Shall we start?” She speaks formally, like a States Person, but there’s a hint of a slight accent. One I can’t place but have heard before. The jangling of her bracelets lessens as she moves her mouth into a tight line and waits for me to answer.

  I want to learn. I really do. And I want her to like me. “Sure.” I give a bright, eager smile. “Are you from the North?” I ask, trying to put her at ease.

  Dasha presses her lips together. “That is irrelevant. You are here to learn.”

  Well, okay then. At least we agree on that. “What are you going to teach me?”

  Her body relaxes but she gives a tense smile in return. “I’m an expert in movement. My job is to teach you how to transport between locations by thought alone. It’s the first thing young witches learn—control over their physical being.”

  “Really?” I can’t hide my enthusiasm. That sounds amazing.

  “Yes. Now, if you will. Simply focus on your destination.” She points to a tree across the way. “Let’s start with that tree. You need to clear your mind, and focus on your body moving, can you do that?”

  “That’s it? No magic words or anything?”

  “Lark, that is undignified. We don’t speak gibberish.”

  I suck on my lip. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I don’t know anything about magic. You’re my first teacher.”

  “I am aware of that. But it doesn’t mean I’ll allow that kind of behavior.” She gives me a displeased look, reminiscent of Mr. Proctor. “Now, clear your mind and focus on moving your body to that tree.”

  That doesn’t sound easy. “Can you show me first?”

  Dasha dips her head and with a faint rustle, disappears. A second later, she’s standing near the tree.

  That sound. It’s the same one I heard the day Beck and I confronted the Sensitives at school. No wonder the alarms didn’t sound—the school barricade is useless, and if Bethina’s telling me the truth, some members of State knew. It was all a sham.

  “Your turn.”

  I have no idea what she did. I close my eyes and push all thoughts, except for the tree, out of my mind. I squeeze my eyes tighter and imagine myself standing near the tree. Nothing.

  The rustling sound again. I open my eyes to find we’ve been joined by a group of maybe two dozen witches. They’ve formed two lines, flanking Dasha and me on each side, and face each other.

  Unsure what to do, I lift my hand and say, in my most nonthreatening voice, “Hello.”

  “Killer,” one of them—a boy of about thirteen—hisses.

  I freeze mid-step and focus on him. “Are you talking to me?”

  A few snickers. The boy stares past me, not willing to meet my gaze. “You killed my mother. At your fancy school.”

  My breath catches and my knees wobble. I killed this boy’s mother. Even if it was an accident and in self-defense.
“I’m-”

  “Sorry?” he asks in disbelief. “You’re not. You would kill all of us, if given the chance.”

  I shake my head. “No. You don’t understand. She threatened me.”

  The boy lifts his eyes. Unshed tears glisten in his eyes. An older woman lays her arm across his shoulders and he buries his head into her armpit. A long, low sob fills the air.

  I killed his mother.

  More than ever, I want to disappear. And transporting seems like my best option at the moment. I close my eyes and focus on moving as far from this boy—and these other witches—as possible.

  I concentrate on the tree and do exactly what Dasha said. But nothing. I’m still standing in the same spot.

  Dasha appears next to me. “Are you trying? Or is this a big game to you? Movement should be easy with your capabilities.”

  Someone in the crowd attempts to cover up their laugh with a cough. Great. Not only am I failing, I’m doing it front of an audience.

  “Of course I’m trying! I have no idea what you did. It’s not like you explained it or anything.” Anger boils inside me.

  “Try again. Failure is not an option.” She takes a step back from me. “Focus your mind, Lark. You can do this.”

  The anger seeps through my brain. I’m not sure if I’m mad at Dasha for accusing me of not trying or myself for incompetence. With a deep breath, I clear all my hostile thoughts and focus on the tree.

  The air rushes over my skin. A small movement and then a horrible, searing pain as I smack into an invisible barrier. I crumple on the ground a good ten feet from the tree. Blood clogs my throat and runs down my face.

  “Oh my!” Dasha leans over me but doesn’t touch me. “What happened?”

  I try to answer but blood pours down my throat and I gag. Unfamiliar faces lean over me to get a better look at my injuries.

  I hear someone say, “That’s what she gets.”

  No one offers to help me. And why would they? They hate me.

  And then a man’s velvety voice says, “Perhaps I can help?”

  “Oh thank the stars! Eamon.” Dasha’s voice darts between fear and concern. “I don’t know what happened. She seemed to be doing fine and then this!” She says ‘this’ as if I planned to cause myself bodily harm.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced,” he says to me. “Eamon Winchell, healer.” He tugs on his red tunic. “Member of the Northern society.”

  A healer. Right now, I don’t care who he is, along as he can make the throbbing pain stop.

  Eamon bends and examines my nose without touching me. The bronze highlights in his hair shimmer and I try to concentrate on that as he holds his hand inches above my body. “Your arm is broken. And your nose, too.”

  Dasha wrings her hands. “Can you fix it? Please say you can fix it.”

  “Not a problem.” His blue eyes rest on my face. “I’m going to touch you. Don’t move.”

  I lean to the side and vomit blood. Stinging tears well in my eyes. “I’ll try.”

  “Give us room,” he says to the crowd and they immediately back up. Eamon places his hand on my arm. Under his touch, pressure builds until a snapping sensation takes over. My bone vibrates, mending itself. He watches me closely.

  “Don’t move or I’ll have to re-break it.” His lips twitch into a smile before pressing together.

  I focus on my breathing. In and out. In and out. The vibrating shakes my arm, shoulder, and torso in an uncomfortable but not painful way. It’s hard to stay still with my body shaking uncontrollably.

  Eamon lifts his hand. “Can you bend it? Does it hurt?”

  Gently, I lift my arm. It feels fine. As if nothing happened. I whip my head up to thank him and am overcome with nausea as blood pours down my throat again.

  “Your nose is going to be harder.” He leans in close to me and places his hands on my cheeks. “You must hold still, no matter what. We don’t want to ruin your pretty face.”

  “Eamon,” Dasha interrupts. “Should I get Margo? Let her know what happened?”

  “Yes. But tell her Lark is fine.”

  Dasha disappears.

  “Now. Let’s see.” Eamon’s eyes glare at me, full of hate.

  I instinctively pull away from him.

  “Now, now Alouette. No need to be difficult.” He mockingly slaps my cheek. Pain shoots through my nose and into my eyes. More laughing from the group around us.

  Through clenched teeth, I sputter, “My name is Lark.”

  “Alouette. Lark. C’est la même chose,” he says, his voice like honey as speaks the official language of the nearly non-existent Northern Society—one I don’t understand but recognize. “You still need to be a good patient and listen to what I tell you. Never know what will happen if you don’t.”

  I tense. “You don’t like me.”

  “No one said I had to like you. I just have to do my job.” His hand glides over my nose and the bleeding stops. A flick of his wrist and pain ripples through my head. I scream and cover my face with my hands, in an effort to block whatever he’s doing to me.

  “Move your hands or I can’t fix it.”

  I grit my teeth and lower my hands, prepared to cover my face again if the pain returns. I can’t open my eyes, but I feel Eamon’s breath as he leans over me. A strong vibration runs through my cheeks and nose, but this time it doesn’t hurt.

  I open my eyes as he stands up. Behind Eamon, Dasha and Mrs. Channing appear. There’s no sign of the other witches who surrounded us just moments ago. And still no Beck. It’s like he’s vanished and left me here all alone.

  Mrs. Channing blanches. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re covered in blood.” She turns to Eamon. “Thank you, Eamon. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  He tilts his head at the women and disappears, leaving nothing behind but a faint rustling sound and a cold lump in my chest.

  22

  Time passes quickly at Summer Hill. The days slip away, bringing us closer to October and mine and Beck’s birthday. Closer to whatever’s waiting for us. Days I can never get back.

  This morning I’m supposed to work with Eloise. I’ve given up on seeing Beck. Either the Channings really are keeping us separated, or like everyone else, he’s afraid of me. I want to believe it’s the first reason.

  As I cross the expansive South Lawn to my next lesson, I’m not sure what to expect. After my experiences with Dasha and several other teachers, I’m not optimistic about my lessons. I’m either too hopeless to learn magic or my teachers are too afraid of me. Regardless, when it comes to magic, I’m a miserable failure.

  All I want right now is to learn how to control myself. Maybe that will be enough to keep Beck safe and me from falling deeper into darkness. I really don’t know since no one’s told me anything and I haven’t been able to find Bethina. My stomach knots at the thought of her abandoning me here. Surely she wouldn’t do that?

  The sun moves higher in the sky and its unrelenting rays beat on me. Other than the ever-present crickets and butterflies, there’s no one here.

  Huh, maybe I’m in the wrong place. I scan the field one more time and then turn to head back toward the house. Mrs. Channing will know where I’m supposed to be.

  A faint rustle causes me to turn. I recognize the sound of a witch materializing near me.

  Crouched low in the swaying grass is the copper-haired witch, the one who waved at me during breakfast last week. In the sunlight, her wavy hair shimmers like the vintage pennies Mr. Channing collects and displays in little glass boxes on the walls.

  “Oh, heya, Lark.” She stands and dusts her hands on her short—like barely-covering-her short—skirt. Kyra would love it. “I’m sorry I’m late. I hope you didn’t have to wait long.”

  She offers me her hand in greeting.

  I stare at it. Is this a trick? Surely she can’t be that comfortable around me. No one is. She waits, her big eyes friendly.

  Everything about her reminds me of Kyra. Not
in looks, but in bubbliness. Loneliness gnaws at me—what I wouldn’t give to have Kyra here right now. She’d have a thing or two to say about my current situation, I’m sure, and I’d love to see Mrs. Channing take her on. Kyra can wear anyone down.

  I hesitantly accept Eloise’s greeting and shake her hand.

  “Sorry, it took me a lot longer to repair the dome than I thought it would.” She has the same faint accent as Eamon and I wonder if they’re friends.

  Eloise flings herself back into the grass, her fingers point upward. “See up there?”

  I squint, my head tilted back, looking for what she sees.

  “It was getting weak and the Channings were worried that it may not hold out the Dark witches. But I took care of it.” Her lilting voice is full of pride.

  My mind races with that information. There are Dark witches on the other side?

  I stare upward, but see nothing except bright blue sky. They’re out there. Waiting. That can’t be good.

  “Yeah, can’t have Dark witches mixing with Light witches, you know,” I say, half-joking, but more serious.

  “You’re funny.” Eloise laughs and shakes her head. “So, what do you want to do first? Protection charms, weather enchantments, you name it, we’ll do it.” Her smile extends from ear to ear and seems genuine. I can’t help but smile back, not just because she’s so likeable, but because I miss having someone to smile with.

  My heart drops. If Beck were here, I’d have someone. “Well, since I can’t really seem to do anything, why don’t you pick something and I’ll give it a try.”

  Eloise rubs her hands together, like she’s warming up and then closes her eyes tight. She’s quiet for a moment and I wonder if I’m supposed to do the same.