“That is highly irregular,” Ms. Brewster says, furrowing her brow. “It is not a choice whether or not to attend La Voisin. It is expected for you to attend. Is is your duty to learn to use the gifts Hecate has bestowed upon you.”
I shift on my feet. “I don’t know what the exact arrangement was,” I say. “My mama—”
“What is your name again?” Ms. Brewster asks, and a file cabinet behind me opens.
“Whittaker,” I say. “Madison.”
A manila folder flies out and goes to Ms. Brewster. She opens the file and sits down. She motions for me to do the same, and Jaxon takes the liberty of joining us.
“Your mother is Genevieve Whittaker,” Ms. Brewster says, and I nod. “A third generation mundane. Your father was Alexander Smith. Mortal human. Died young. No information about his lineage.” She sighs and closes the folder. “I’m sorry, Ms. Whittaker, but I don’t think I can help you.”
“What?” I ask, alarmed.
“Are you aware of the Bloodline Quantum?” Ms. Brewster asks.
I shake my head.
“The Bloodline Quantum refers to the fact that the strength of Hecate’s blessing is dependent on a witch’s bloodline. The more mortals or mundanes there are in your family, the weaker a new witch’s powers are likely to be.”
“Oh,” I say. “Yes, I know. That’s why Mama didn’t think I needed to come here. She thought my powers would be something I could easily control.”
Ms. Brewster nods. “Well, your mother and I would agree there. Three generations of mundanes on one side and a mortal bloodline on the other. Usually, I would be gravely concerned about a young witch not coming here, but even if you did attend classes, your powers would be little more than parlor tricks.”
I shake my head, greatly pained at her words, but I’m determined not to cry.
Beau’s death was hardly a parlor trick.
But I don’t want to tell her about that. Even though Beau’s death is the reason I’m here, I am scared to tell anyone that I killed someone. I don’t know these people. I can’t trust them yet. They could banish me from the school. They could tell the cops the truth...ish. Not that I’m a witch, but that I had more to do with Beau’s death than they think. They could punish me in some witch’s tribunal for using my powers for evil or something.
I mean, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about witches or witch society. So Beau’s death is a secret I need to keep for now. But it is also the main reason why I am here. I need to convince her to let me stay without revealing my true motivation.
“There was a storm,” I say. “A huge storm.”
“And?” Ms. Brewster asks.
“My friend was stuck in it,” I go on. “Hit her head. I couldn’t carry her inside, so I used my powers to protect her. I guarded her from any debris and...and I think I might have caused the storm to...subside.”
Okay, the last part was a lie. But I’m really desperate for help.
“Is that so?” Ms. Brewster asks. She purses her lips and looks down at my file again.
I cross my fingers.
“That’s a big deal for someone with your family history,” Jaxon pipes up.
“I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m here. I’m really scared, and there is no one in my life who can help me.”
“You realize that if I admit you,” Ms. Brewster says, “you are over a year and a half behind. This semester has only a couple of months left before summer break. It will be nearly impossible for you to catch up.”
“I can do it,” I say. “I’ll do my best. I’ll take extra classes. Practice really hard. I swear it.”
“Don’t swear, Ms. Whittaker,” Ms. Brewster says. “Let that be lesson one. Words are powerful.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“I can help her,” Jaxon offers. “I already tutor the year one students. I can tutor Madison too.”
I give him a wan smile, grateful for his help, but once again wondering about his motives. Ms. Brewster looks at my file, sighs, glances out her window, sighs again, then shakes her head.
“Fine,” she says.
“Oh, thank you!” I burst out.
“But,” she says firmly, “on a provisional basis. If I don’t think you have sufficiently caught up or improved by semester’s end, you will not be invited back next year. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Of course, ma’am. Absolutely, ma’am.”
“Very well,” she says. She reaches into a desk drawer. “We only have one bed available. Room 415. Come back tomorrow morning and I will have your books and schedule prepared. I need some time to think on what exactly you need to focus on first.”
“I understand. Thank you so, so much.” I reach over to take the key from her, but she grips my fingers in hers.
“I hope you succeed, Ms. Whittaker,” she says. “But it will not be easy.”
I do my best to smile, but I feel warmth well in my heart. I have a feeling that Ms. Brewster is exactly who I need in my life. She is stern, yes, but she believes in me. She will push me to do my best. I was so nervous about coming here, but I know I am in the right place.
“Nothing worth doing ever is,” I say, and Ms. Brewster smiles for the first time.
She releases my hand. “Welcome to La Voisin, Ms. Whittaker.”
I smile genuinely for the first time since...well, since I saw Beau run out onto the field at yesterday’s game. I am sort of overwhelmed by how quickly things have happened.
Jaxon grabs my bag and heads for the door.
“I can carry it,” I say, reaching for it.
“I thought we already discussed this,” he says.
“That’s just Jaxon’s gentlemanly nature,” Ms. Brewster says affectionately. “He’s an old soul.”
“Fine,” I mumble, and I hope she’s right that he is just being polite. I could really use a friend, but a boyfriend is completely off the table.
Jaxon leads me back to the stairs and up to the next floor.
“Dang, this house is huge,” I say.
“You haven’t even seen half of it,”he says as we continue up the stairs.
We reach the fourth floor landing and head down a hallway. There must be lots of students housed up here because there are lots of doors and several more halls.
“How many students are there?” I ask.
“About fifty, I think,” Jaxon says. “But that’s for all four years.”
“So many,” I say. “I’ve never even met another witch before.”
“It’s nothing,” he says. “In the past, there would be hundreds of students.”
“Hundreds?” I ask. “How did they all stay here? Were they sleeping in drawers?”
Jaxon laughs. “You’d be surprised how many people can room here if we used bunk beds. But back in the old days, the upperclassmen would room at a boarding house in town. But now, there are few enough of us that each room just has two beds.”
“Is it because of the Bloodline Quantum?” I ask. “Not as many witches being born?”
“Something like that,” he says. “But intermarrying with mortals is the bigger problem. Even a witch marrying a witch doesn’t guarantee your kids will be witches, but the odds are way better than marrying a mortal. But lots of witches nowadays don’t consider that when they choose a partner.”
I nod. I never even considered dating a witch for the good of witch-kind. I didn’t care about that. Of course, I didn’t set out to fall in love with Beau. It just happened. I don’t believe in fate, but I don’t know that love is a choice either. You love who you love, and when you meet the right person, you just know.
“So, here is your room,” Jaxon says, stopping at the last door of one of the hallways. I’d gotten a bit lost in my thoughts and hadn’t paid attention to how we got here.
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to find my way back,” I say.
“Why don’t we have lunch together?” he asks. “I can show you around after.”
<
br /> “That would be helpful,” I say. “Thanks.”
“No problem, Maddie,” he says. “Can I call you Maddie?”
He gives me a half smile and leans on the door, and all kinds of alarm bells go off in my head. I have to put a stop to this now.
“I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done,” I say. “I really want—no, need—to be here. Without you, I would have just run off back to Oklahoma.”
“Gobble-gobble?” he asks with a chuckle.
“Right... Turkey Hollow. But...umm...there is...was...someone…”
“You got a fellow back home?” he asks, leaning back from me a bit.
“Not exactly,” I say. “I mean, I did, but...umm...it’s complicated. I just don’t want things to be weird between us. I could really use a friend, but I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”
“Sure,” he says. I can tell he’s disappointed, but he’s doing his best not to show it. “This is all pretty overwhelming.”
“Yeah, definitely,” I say. “Thanks for understanding.”
“No problem.” He pushes away from where he’s leaning on my door. “So...yes? No? On the Maddie thing?”
I laugh. “Only my mama calls me Maddie, actually. I really prefer Madison.”
“Sure thing, Madison,” he says as he knocks on the door. No one answers. “Got your key? Guess your roomie is still in class.”
“Oh, right.” I pull the key out of my pocket and open the door.
The good thing about a corner bedroom is that there are two large windows that must really illuminate the room when the sun shines. The bad part is that my roommate has already taken the bed by the window.
I walk in and drop my bag on the floor by the other bed. “I guess this is me.”
“Looks like,” Jaxon says. He pulls out his phone to check the time. “Lunch is in an hour. I have a couple things to do, so I’ll come back for you and take you to the dining hall then, okay?”
“Awesome,” I say. “That will give me time to unpack.”
“Cool. See ya’,” he says.
I sit on the bed and exhale. He seems fine with me not being interested in him romantically, which is great. I’m glad I had the courage to say something before things got weird.
Still, I hope I can make some girl friends soon. I should try to find the redheaded girl from the bathroom. Krista. She seemed to know Jaxon. He can probably help me find her at lunch.
I open my bag and pull out my phone charger. I look around the bed for an outlet, but don’t see one. There is a lamp on the table by the bed, so there must be one back there.
I try to pull the table out, but it is shockingly heavy. I wiggle it back and forth, trying to move it enough to slip my arm behind and plug the charger in, but I don’t move it enough. I use all my strength to pull it and finally I can put my arm back there, but it’s still tight, and dark.
I turn the light on for the phone and try to see. The outlet is way near the floor, so I practically lie on my belly to try and reach it. I’m straining, but I almost have it.
“Well, well, well,” a voice behind me says. “This is going to be fun.”
I turn around and see my roommate smirking at me with her arms crossed.
Giselle.
Chapter 7
I was afraid I was going to be late. I looked everywhere for my History of Magick text only to find it on the very top of my wardrobe, pushed back against the wall where I couldn’t see it and most certainly didn’t put it. I don’t know why Giselle has it out for me, but she’s been doing everything she can to make my life as hard as possible.
“Settle down, class,” Ms. Holly Bucher says, clapping her hands together as I rush into the classroom. “Have a seat, Ms. Whittaker.”
I’m in the doorway, surveying the room, looking for anyone I might know or a friendly face. I see no one, so I slink to the back of the room and sit in a wingback chair against a bookshelf.
Ms. Bucher is an air witch, and she teaches the first-year classes. I’ve been assigned all of the first—and second—year classes. Simple Arts, Historical Magic, Common Omens, Ethical Magic, Hexes and Blessings, and a couple of others. And, since it’s already spring, I’m behind in all of them.
How am I supposed to catch up by the end of the semester to get ready for year three?
Ms. Brewster told me that we would try to come up with a plan for that in the coming weeks. Like maybe I can test out of them or something, but I don’t know how that’s possible. I don’t know anything. Everything is so new to me; I’m starting from scratch.
Still, there’s nothing I can do about that except try my best. So I take a calming breath, open my book, and get ready to pay attention.
Ms. Bucher sits on her desk and crosses her legs so she can see everyone. The classroom is really just a nice big room in the house, like all the classrooms. It’s a house, not an actual school, so it wasn’t designed for lectures. Most of the rooms are more like offices, parlors, and libraries with a desk for the teacher and chairs for us students. We sit where we want, and the classes are pretty casual, more like discussions than lectures.
“Today, we are talking about the impact of traditional European magic on Native American magic and beliefs,” Ms. Bucher says.
I giggle at the image at the front of the chapter. It looks a lot like the images in my textbooks back home of the first Thanksgiving. Pilgrims in belt-buckle hats sitting around a table with half-naked Natives sharing a giant turkey with all the trimmings. Of course, anyone with Internet knows it wasn’t exactly like that and that Thanksgiving as we know it is a pretty modern holiday. The Pilgrims slaughtered the Natives in the coming years—at least those who hadn’t already been ravaged by disease. As I was reading this chapter, I couldn’t help but wonder if the witch version of the exchange of magic was similarly Disney-fied.
“When the witch hysteria of Salem broke out and spread across the new colonies,” Ms. Boucher said, “many of the witches fled into the continent, where they came in close contact with the Native peoples. Of course, this was very frightening for the settlers. But by sharing their magic with the Natives, they were able to share a common language and greatly benefit the Native peoples. Teaching them how to commune not just with nature, but the spirits. Many Native American beliefs today can be traced to old magical practices of Europe. The settlers who fled to the tribes formed close alliances with the Natives, living with them, even intermarrying in some cases.”
I glance around the room and am surprised when I don’t see anyone who looks Native American. There are mostly white people and black people. I passed a couple of Asian students in the hall earlier, but they aren’t in any of my classes. There are also some hispanic or Latino students, though I’m not sure which because I haven’t spoken to them yet.
Come to think of it, I actually haven’t made any friends yet aside from Jaxon and Krista, and I haven’t even seen those two since yesterday. But if the early witches were so close to the Native peoples, why aren’t there any here? One thing I appreciated about dating Beau was how he helped me see a lot of the day-to-day racism and long-term negative impacts of racism on Native peoples.
I tentatively raise my hand.
“Yes, Ms. Whittaker?” Ms. Boucher says, nodding her head at me.
“So, where are the Native witches today?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“If we formed such a strong bond with the Native peoples, why haven’t I seen any Native American students here?”
“We have had some over the years,” Ms. Boucher says. “But, you know, Natives make up such a small part of the population, they just don’t have many students to send to us.”
I nod. It makes some sense. Even in Oklahoma, there were few Native students in each class. And many Native families homeschooled.
Ms. Boucher stood and picked up a dreamcatcher. “The dreamcatcher,” she said, “is one such example. Many people think they are a Native American tradition, but see how the wea
ving looks like a spiderweb? And we all know how important spiders are to witchcraft. Dating all the way back to Ancient Greece and Arachne, the first spider, spiders and spiderwebs have played an important role in old world witchcraft. Our ancestors brought this belief with them and shared it with the Native peoples, who adapted that belief into their own, forming the creation of the dreamcatcher.”
My jaw drops, and I about slip out of my chair. Is she kidding?
“Ms. Boucher,” I say, wishing I could stop myself from challenging her. But I can’t. The words keep spilling out. “Dreamcatchers have been found in archeological sites long predating the arrival of the Pilgrims.”
“I don’t think so,” she says, even though I know what I saw at a museum in Tulsa as part of a school field trip. “The link between the dreamcatcher and spiders is clear, showing the link between European magic and its influence on Native peoples.”
“The dreamcatcher is inspired by spiders,” I say, “but many cultures have beliefs related to spiders. That doesn’t mean they all were inspired by our version of witchcraft.”
“What are you trying to say, Madison?” Ms. Boucher asks, putting down the dreamcatcher.
Everyone else in the classroom looks at me, too, and I gulp. I hadn’t planned for this.
“I...I’m just saying that inspiration flows both ways,” I say. “Maybe the Native dreamcatcher inspired our views on spiders in witchcraft.”
Ms. Bucher snorts a laugh. “While it is true that the Native peoples had their own beliefs, their own magic, it was extremely primitive. We helped elevate Native American beliefs and powers to a new level.”
I feel a rock settle heavily in my gut. I miss Beau. I’m the last person who should be trying to educate others on Native American history. But even what little I know is more than what I am hearing here. This isn’t Disney-fied history, but something much worse. Something much more insidious.
I shake my head in disappointment and frustration. “So, how did Native American spiritualism influence European witchcraft?”
Other students snicker. I fail to see the humor in my question.
Ms. Boucher sighs. “I’m not sure that it did much,” she says. “After all, our power, our strength, our beliefs, come from Hecate herself. The first witch. The wild woman of Greek mythology. How could any other belief system improve upon that?”
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