by S. W. Clarke
She didn’t say anything. That is, not until I’d finished showering and I came back out, fresh and not smelling like horse, I hoped.
She was still sitting at her desk, facing me now. “Did you have a good evening?”
“Sure.” When I crossed toward my bed, I realized why she’d been waiting for me to get out of the shower.
The Witching World sat cover-up on my bedspread. I’d left it out.
Loki sat beside it, staring at me. “Sorry. I don’t have opposable thumbs to hide books this big.”
My eyes flicked back to Eva.
“Yes, Clem,” she said, “I did notice the book. We need to talk.”
I sat on my bed, cursing silently. “Can you not phrase it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like we’re about to break up. We’re not even dating and it gives me the willies.”
“Okay.” She pointed at the book. “Tell me why that’s not in the Room of the Ancients.”
I shouldn’t lie; good witches weren’t supposed to lie. And I was a good witch, right?
Right?
Chapter Thirty-Six
I lied to her. I couldn’t tell her Aiden had given the witching book to me without breaking my promise to him. And so, with the ease I’d practiced many times with my foster families, I said, “I took it from the Room of the Ancients.”
Eva’s eyes went wide as plates. “You broke in?”
“I did.”
“How?”
I searched for an answer. “I waited until someone else went in and snuck in behind them.”
“But that’s not possible,” Eva said. “You can’t access the room unless you have permission. It’s magically sealed.”
I turned away, petting Loki. He hopped down off the bed as though in judgment of my lies; he wouldn’t be my prop. So I started toweling off my hair instead. “The point is, Eva, I need this book. It’s the only one there is about witches written by a witch.”
“So you’re going to avoid the fact that you lied to me by changing the subject.”
I sighed, forcing my eyes onto her. “You don’t understand.”
“That you lied?”
“No—why I had to lie.”
“Why did you have to lie?”
I kept toweling my hair, as though the motion was more important than our conversation. “I made someone a promise.”
“So someone stole the book for you. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes,” I said through tight lips.
“And why couldn’t you have told me that from the beginning?”
I threw the towel on the bed. “Because it’s none of your business. It never was. This is about me.”
She nodded slowly, and in the ensuing silence I felt the bubbling mixture of anger and guilt and regret all intermixing in my chest.
I hated that feeling. I hated the silence.
But I forced myself to hold her gaze anyway, as though we were in a wordless standoff and the first to look away was, in some strange, childish way, the one to back down.
“I just want you to know,” she said after a time, “that I’m not going to stop being your friend just because you’ve broken an academy rule. Stealing the book from the Room of the Ancients so you can learn witchery isn’t the problem.”
I knew what she would say next. I didn’t want it.
“It’s the lack of trust that’s the problem,” she said. “It’s the lying.”
“I trust you,” I said, knowing that wasn’t entirely true. I didn’t fully trust anyone.
“Then don’t lie to me,” she said, turning back around to her desk. “Just tell me when something is none of my business.”
I didn’t know what to say. She was right, but I still felt that mixture of anger and guilt in my chest. I was upset with myself, and I wanted to lash out, to release some of that discomfort.
So I got up, grabbed my book, put on my cloak, and left. I came out onto the grounds where the old snow lay tracked-through and muddy, and I started walking.
There was only one place at the academy I could go this late at night.
Now that I was a member of House Spark, I had permanent access to their common room. I hadn’t ever wanted to go because I didn’t feel welcome, but right now I wanted to be anywhere but my dorm.
A minute later I came to the steps spiraling up and around their tree, and climbed them to the door with Spark’s insignia—a burst of flame—engraved on the front.
When I pushed it in, I felt a wave of power wash over me. This was the fire seal that prevented access to anyone who wasn’t a member of Spark, and for a moment I wondered if the seal would reject me. Hell, most of the other members of the house didn’t want me, anyway.
But I came through the doorway without resistance. As soon as I entered the empty common room, the flames in the stone fireplace kicked up to a roar. I’d been told during my welcoming party that they reflected the general mood of the room, and since I was the only one present…
Well, burn, baby, burn.
I stared, taking in the space. Around me lay bookcases and armchairs, sofas, low-light lamps set all around to give the place a soft ambience, and that high fire burning away in the fireplace. How is it possible a fireplace has been installed in a tree? I wondered, not for the first time. Magic, I supposed, since they didn’t have chimneys.
Maybe it wasn’t even a real fire.
Stairs led up from the first floor to a loft, where I spied more chairs and bookcases. This was the first time I’d actually visited, and I was glad to be alone. No judgment greeted me, no narrowed eyes. And I had my pick of places to sit.
I came into the room, set my book down on one of the end tables. Above the mantel, a tabard with Spark’s insignia hung tall and rich with color. Adorning the walls at either side were portraits of all the professors of House Spark through the centuries.
Included among them was Quartermistress Farrow.
I gazed up at her severe, no-nonsense face. Soon I would have to tell her about Noir. Not yet, though. Not until I could ride him properly.
I climbed the steps to the loft and sat on one of the armchairs, book in lap. I settled in, opening up Raven Murkwood’s book. As I did, I found myself forgetting about everything else in my life. This happened every time I started reading her book; I grew somehow closer to her words, sinking deeper into her exploration of the witching world. Something about the sound of flames flickering soothed me, brought the book to life.
I’ll admit: I read the book multiple times, and not just for what I could learn. Reading Murkwood, it almost felt like I had another witch around. Sometimes she talked about her feelings, her frustration and anger at learning how to use her magic, and I understood.
She was an air witch, I’d learned from reading. It felt like she and I had a kinship, especially because she hadn’t turned to evil. I could look to her as a rare role model. And so I ended up passing many nights that way through the winter, communing with the only other witch I’d encountered at the academy.
Winter lapsed by degrees into spring, and I hardly looked up. That was the thing about change: you hardly noticed it until it was undeniable. And one day, I came outside and the snow was gone. The grass had begun to grow. The air had warmed.
Through it all, the book and Noir were my comfort. My secrets.
And me? I was exhausted. I was burning the candle at both ends between my morning work at the stables, my classes, and my secret rendezvouses with horse training and Raven Murkwood at night.
I’d become distant with everyone, even Eva. Even Aiden. Even Loki.
But I had begun trotting and then cantering on Noir. I had begun a mental repetition of what Raven Murkwood had written about witches: Unlike every other mage, a witch feels her power like a living thing in the center of her.
Like a living thing.
Witches are creatures of emotion and impulse, she’d written. Of magic bound only by the imagination’s capacity.
I c
ouldn’t stop thinking about when I would get my power. My magic. I couldn’t stop thinking about the next time I’d read that book and ride my horse.
And then, one morning at the stables, Quartermistress Farrow dropped a bomb.
I was mucking out Siren’s stall when I heard it: a shriek, and then the sound of Noir freaking out.
I rushed out into the aisle with my pitchfork, manure spilling everywhere. “What’s happened?”
Farrow came down the aisle, rushing past me. She arrived at Noir’s stall door just in time to jump back as his back hoof came flying through the air over the door. He would have connected with her chest if she hadn’t been so quick to move.
In the aisle at her feet, I noticed a first-year from Gaia sitting against the opposite stall door, her hand cradled. Tears glistened on her cheeks.
And I knew exactly what had happened: the girl had gotten too friendly with him too soon, and he’d bitten her.
I set the pitchfork aside and came forward, but Farrow’s hand went out. “Stay back from the godsdamn horse, Clementine.” She grabbed the upper door, began closing it. “He needs the door shut to calm down.”
“No he doesn’t,” I said. “He’ll just feel enclosed.”
Farrow didn’t spare me a glance, or even another word. She was too focused on what she thought was the right course. She pushed the top half of the stall door shut, latched it as hard and fast as she could.
“Unlatch it,” I said, coming closer. “Please.”
“Clementine,” she flared on me, “would you—”
A whinny erupted from inside the stall, and I knew what was coming next.
I lunged forward, grabbing Farrow’s arm and pulling her aside. The moment I did, Noir’s hoof plowed straight through the stall door at calf-height. Shards of wood flew everywhere, and the first-year from Gaia shrieked.
By now, all the other horses in the stables were riled up, making noise and pacing in their stalls.
Farrow stared at me a moment, a mixture of shock and gratitude on her face.
That quickly shifted into shrewd contemplation.
Does she suspect?
But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she turned to the hurt girl and helped her to her feet. She led her to the outer door and outside, telling her to go to the infirmary.
Then she turned back, latching the outer door. “Clementine, you need to leave.”
“I can help,” I said. “I’m good with him.”
“He’s not in his right mind,” she said. “Out of the stables.”
And though it crossed my mind to ignore her completely, I did as she asked. Outside, I paced as the sounds of the riled-up horses floated on the spring air, and students passing by to morning classes slowed and stared.
Ten minutes later, the latch to the stable door finally clicked, and Farrow came out brushing her hands off. She had a fine layer of stall chips all over her, and what looked like a streak of manure.
I went still, waiting as she approached.
“Are you all right?” she said when she got to me.
I shook her question off. “Is Noir hurt?”
“He’s fine, the godsdamn beast. I gave him a sedative.”
I practically flinched. “A sedative?”
She brushed detritus from her hair. “Yeah, he’ll be quite sleepy for the next hour or so.” Then, “I know you’re fond of feeding that one, Clementine, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to give him up.”
My gut cinched, and anger swelled in me. I didn’t know exactly what that entailed, but I knew it meant Noir would go away. “No. We’re not giving him up.”
One harsh eyebrow rose, and her eyes swiveled onto me with imperious severity. “Pardon me?”
I bit back my harsh response. I’d learned over the months that arguing with Farrow wouldn’t get me anywhere. “I thought you were breaking him.”
She stared at me. “Some horses can’t be broken. They’re too wild.”
Yes, they can.
I’ve done it.
But I couldn’t tell her that.
If I told her that, then I’d also have to tell her how I’d done it. I’d have to admit that I’d been sneaking into the stables since January. And she wasn’t the kind of woman from whom you could ask forgiveness instead of permission.
I liked Farrow, and she liked me. But if she was particular about one thing, it was the running of her stables.
I’d broken one of her inviolable laws. I’d done it many times without her knowledge.
So I just stood there with my chest feeling fit to burst, fists clenching. “What does giving him up mean?”
Farrow sighed, her eyes softening. I could tell I wouldn’t like the answer she was about to give me. “You have to understand one thing. We can’t just send a horse like that back out into the wilds.”
So she’d anticipated my conclusion: that she would just let him go free.
“Why not?” I said.
“He’s no normal horse anymore,” she said. “Once a horse has been around mages long enough, they change. They’re not fully of the human world, and not fully of the magical world.”
I waited for her to finish.
“If we were to send him back out into the forest, he’d die, I’m afraid,” she said.
My throat clenched. “Why?”
“The magic feeds them. Not their guts, but their spirit. They become aligned to us, and without that, they wither.”
I searched for solutions. “There are other mages in the world. Surely one of them needs a horse.”
That pitying look was still in her eyes. “A horse too wild to ride? He’s bitten a girl.” She reached out, setting her hand on my shoulder. “I won’t do it right away. Not until the end of the week.”
The end of the week.
That was so soon.
Ferocious anger broiled in me, and I stepped away from her hand before I swiped it away. “I’m done for the day.”
And when I turned, I didn’t want for her response. As it was, I didn’t care if she fired me. In that sterling moment of unadulterated anger, I didn’t care about her at all.
She was preparing to put down the horse I was meant to ride. The horse I had ridden night in and out, with whom I’d forged a relationship. He was mine alone, and mine always.
I couldn’t let her do this. But I had no idea how to change her mind, and I only had a week to figure it out.
If I didn’t, Noir would die.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Several days passed, and I didn’t know what to do to save Noir. It was all I thought about, and the best solution I had was to run away with him.
But I couldn’t leave the academy. Not yet. Not now. I still had so much to learn.
I dug further into Murkwood’s book, retreating from Eva and Loki and Aiden and everyone else. I sought answers in her words, knowing she couldn’t help me.
What I’d really ended up seeking from Murkwood, I realized at the end of those five days, was solace. Comfort.
But I didn’t find any there.
And I certainly wouldn’t find it in my magical history lesson with Aiden, who knew nothing about the horse. On and on he went that morning about the pantheon of gods mages believed in, not knowing my real predicament.
Not knowing where my mind was.
And somehow, I suspected as I stared up at the ceiling of the library that spring morning—up at the wisps flitting around—those will-o-wisps might possess an answer.
I could swear the longer I stared at them, the more I heard their faint whispers.
“Clem?” Aiden said. “Clementine.”
Since we’d started our lessons, Aiden had managed to cram hundreds of years’ worth of mage history into my head. He even gave me monthly tests to ensure I’d absorbed it all.
Despite my late nights, I’d managed to pass all his tests by skim-reading the books he gave me. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t tired. And distractible.
“What?” I snapped my head do
wn, eyes meeting his.
Aiden studied me with folded arms. “Did you hear any of what I said?”
“Sure.”
“So, what was it?”
“You were talking about the fae goddess Aine.”
“That was twenty minutes back.”
I sighed, straightening in my chair. “So sue me for getting distracted. The average person’s attention span is only twenty minutes, and mine’s half that.”
Disappointment crossed his face. “What’s happening with you?”
I sat forward, touching my finger to the open book in front of me. “It’s fine. Let’s talk about the fae.”
“I’d moved on to the Shade. How she was bound to Hell.”
My eyes lifted. “The Shade?”
“Clem, you weren’t listening at all.” His gaze dropped to my satchel at my feet, where The Witching World’s spine was visible.
I quickly flipped the top of the satchel over to cover it. “Tell me about the Shade and Hell.”
“First,” he said, “I think it’s time you returned that book to me.”
“No,” I said at once. “I need it. I’m learning from it.”
“Are you? How much could you possibly learn at this point? You’ve had it for months, and I know you’ve read it multiple times through.”
Anger flared in me. “And I still can’t access my magic. Is that what you’re implying?”
“What? No.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Clem, I think I made a mistake. There’s a reason those books are locked away in a room.”
“Because they’re old and fragile. But I’m not damaging it.”
“No,” he said. “That’s not it. Some of them contain power of their own. And I didn’t think that book was one of them. I was wrong.”
“Nothing’s changed, Aiden,” I said. “Except that thanks to this book, I’ve learned more about witching than anyone at this godforsaken academy can teach me.”
He stared at me. One hand went out. “Clem, give me the book.”
“No,” I hissed, standing. My chair scooted out with a high-pitched racket in the empty library. “You don’t understand what it’s like to be a witch. To be alone.” To be unable to protect even one creature’s life.