The Nature of Witches

by Rachel Griffin

  It’s that I feel seen by him.

  “I think I should probably get some rest,” I say.

  “That sounds like a good idea.”

  Sang finishes wrapping my hand with the lavender and puts some extra on my bedside table. “Sleep with this on. It’ll help keep the swelling down.”

  I nod.

  Sang scratches Nox on the head, turns on my fan, and heads to the door.

  “Hey, Sang?”

  He turns to look at me. The floor creaks beneath his weight.

  “Thank you.”

  He smiles and shuts the door behind him. I feel his absence as soon as he leaves, a heaviness that makes me question what he is to me.

  But I can’t question it. He can’t be anything to me.

  I’m making progress with him, more progress than I’ve ever made with anyone. And that’s when I realize that what I’m feeling is nothing more than gratitude for helping me get stronger. Respect for his patience with me. Appreciation for his own abilities.

  That’s it.

  I need to rest. I close my eyes, relieved to have worked out my feelings.

  But it’s a fitful sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “You are more than your magic. Spend time with people who know that so they can remind you of it when you forget.”

  —A Season for Everything

  Weeks pass. Mr. Burrows keeps his job because I’ve gotten “so much stronger under his guidance” and “he was close by for the whole test.”

  The bruise on my hand heals.

  There is snow on the ground.

  There’s frost on the trees.

  The temperature drops below freezing and stays there, as if guarding against another heat wave.

  My training goes back to normal, and Mr. Burrows still makes the lesson plans. I hate knowing he has sway over what I do, but the silver lining is the weekly updates Sang gives me on the state of his bruised face.

  Ever since getting back to campus, I’ve plateaued. Sang hasn’t mentioned it, but I’m sure he’s noticed. It would be impossible not to. I’m worried the heat wave had some kind of permanent impact on my magic, but I can’t figure out how that could’ve happened. It scares me.

  Witches continue to die. Pennsylvania isn’t the only place in the world experiencing atypical weather, and witches in their off-seasons keep stepping up to help. They die of depletion while the witches whose season it is stand by helplessly.

  And it will get worse. The fewer witches we have controlling the atmosphere, the more erratic the weather will become. It’s one thing for heat waves and hailstorms to occur during seasons whose witches can’t help, but what happens when it’s hurricanes and famines and droughts? If the atmosphere devolves into chaos, civilization will follow.

  Maybe that’s why I’ve plateaued—I’ve seen firsthand the effects of unseasonal weather, and I can’t do anything about it. The fact that I can supposedly combine the power of dozens of witches into one intense stream of magic doesn’t mean anything in this evolving atmosphere. Right now, I’m a winter witch, but what good is a powerful thread of winter magic when the only way to address a heat wave in February is with the magic of summer? And I can’t help with that.

  Maybe that’s why Sang hasn’t said anything about my lack of progress. Maybe that’s why the administration has gone easy on me—because they know my power wouldn’t do any good.

  A year ago, that would have been an incredible relief. But now it fills me with dread.

  I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. Tonight is one of my favorite nights of the year, and I want to enjoy it.

  It’s our Celebration of Light, and while I love all the season-end celebrations at Eastern, this one is my favorite. Ms. Suntile even let me join the rest of the winters to prepare, and we spent the past week constructing a massive ice dome for the occasion.

  It’s sitting in the middle of the control field, a place where I have experienced so much failure and disappointment and fear. And recently, a place where I have experienced success and contentment and pride. I wish I could get those successes back somehow.

  The ice keeps most of the sound from drifting out, a low murmur of voices and music all I can hear. The night is clear, and the sky is black. A waxing moon provides enough light to cast the dome in a blue glow, and stars poke through the darkness like needles through fabric, sharp and bright.

  But the amazing thing is that because the dome is thin as glass, the stars are visible from inside as well. I walk in and look up, and sure enough, they’re on full display, along with the moon. It takes a lot of magic to make ice that clear, and I’m amazed by the effect.

  A large chandelier hangs in the center of the dome with hundreds of crystals carved from ice. Small birch trees line the perimeter, their branches bare and covered in frost that sparkles in the light. A dance floor sits in the middle of the dome, and it feels as if we’re in a snow globe.

  At first, I thought we were going overboard, trying to compensate for the week we lost to the heat, but seeing it now, I don’t think that anymore.

  I think it’s perfect.

  Sang did the floral arrangements in shades of deep purple and white. The room is dim, and a live quartet plays instrumental pieces. All the winters wear shades of crimson, and the rest of the witches wear anything but.

  That’s something I like about Eastern: when it’s your season, you get the spotlight. The different seasons may not always understand one another, but they certainly respect everyone’s turn with the sun.

  I walk to the bar and get a sparkling cider, careful to hold up the bottom of my long velvet dress so it doesn’t drag on the floor. I find an empty table and sit down.

  Sang is standing on the opposite side of the room, tending to some flower arrangements. He’s in a black tux, bent over an orchid, turning the vase and then taking a step back to evaluate his work. His fingers hover over the deep-purple petals, and for some reason, the image takes my breath away. If I could choose ten things to keep sharp in my memory for the rest of my life, I think maybe this would be one of them.

  Someone sits down next to me, but I barely register it. I want to love something, anything, as much as Sang loves his flowers.

  “Careful, or you’ll burn a hole in his back.” Paige is sitting next to me, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s looking at Sang.

  I instantly avert my eyes and look at the tablecloth instead. I don’t say anything.

  “He’s had an effect on you,” she says.

  “Who?” I ask, not wanting to acknowledge her words, but it sounds stupid. I obviously know who she’s talking about. She knows it, too, and rolls her eyes.

  “You’re calmer. More self-assured.” Page twirls the straw in her drink and finally looks at me. Her eyes are the perfect shade of blue. They’re dark, almost navy, the color of the sea when the shallows turn to depth.

  “He’s a good training partner,” I say.

  Paige shakes her head and looks back at Sang. “Is that all?”

  “Of course that’s all.”

  “You look at him as if he’s magic.”

  “I do not.” I try to keep my voice even, but it rises with defensiveness.

  “Whatever you say.” She finishes off the last of her drink. “By the way, seeing you punch Mr. Burrows is my new favorite memory of you.”

  Paige stands, but pauses before she walks away. She leans down, her mouth so close to my ear that I can feel the warmth of her breath on my skin. It’s tinged with the sharp smell of alcohol. “Well, almost my favorite.”

  The comment catches me off guard. I never saw her coming, which is one of the cruelties of love. I couldn’t protect her. And now, memories of the way she used to look at me in the middle of the night flood my thoughts.

  She didn’t mind my changes. She called them my ebbs and flows. />
  She said I was her ocean.

  When we started dating, she said she wanted to drown in me.

  I wanted to drown in her too.

  Then Nikki died, and we drowned in grief instead of each other.

  A cold, prickly feeling nips at my skin, but it’s not the memory of Paige. It’s what she said about Sang, her implication that he means something to me. Paige snuck into my heart long before I realized she was there, and it’s why she was struck by lightning earlier this year. It’s why I can’t let my magic anywhere near her.

  It’s why I have to ensure that I never get too close to Sang.

  Then it hits me all at once, the answer to the puzzle I’ve been trying to solve since our first session after the heat wave: I’ve plateaued because I’m afraid we’ve gotten too close.

  I’ve plateaued because seeing the worry on his face made me feel something.

  Because the way he wrapped my hand in lavender made me think for a fleeting second that this is what love is.

  I’ve plateaued because I’m afraid my magic knows about all those passing thoughts and short-lived feelings and has turned them into something they’re not.

  I’m afraid he’ll be hurt because of it.

  Ms. Suntile says something to Sang, and he nods and leaves the dome. I finish my drink and follow him outside. The cold air makes me shiver, and I hug my shawl closer to my body, hurrying after him.

  “Hey,” I call.

  He turns around and smiles as soon as he sees me. His dimples are showing, and his eyes are bright. “Hi. You look beautiful.”

  My heart pounds. His words mean nothing.

  “You can’t say stuff like that to me.”

  The smile falls from Sang’s face. “I’m sorry.” His voice rises at the end, as if he’s asking a question. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable. You’re just seriously confused about what this is, and I need to make sure you understand.” I motion between the two of us.

  I need to make sure my magic understands.

  “Why don’t you explain it to me then.” His voice is calm but strained at the edges.

  “There is nothing between us. You just happened to be the person assigned to train me.” I laugh, and it sounds mean. “You were tricked, Sang. You were brought out here and forced to work with me because Mr. Burrows thought your calming magic would help me. It was never about botany.”

  Sang’s expression falters. “I came out here by choice to continue my studies under Mr. Burrows,” he says, but it isn’t convincing. He knows I’m right.

  “Some mentor, huh?”

  Sang shakes his head. “You never know when to let things go, do you?”

  “I just thought you should know the real reason you aren’t able to fuss around with your plants all day.”

  Sang looks at me as if I’m unrecognizable to him, and I instantly regret the words. The image of him tending to his orchids just minutes ago pops into my mind, and pain blooms in my chest.

  “Fuss around with my plants,” he repeats, tasting the words I threw at him.

  I feel my cheeks redden with heat, but I don’t say anything. If I do, I’m afraid I’ll back down, apologize, tell him Mr. Burrows was wrong for tricking him. Tell him that even though it was wrong, I’m glad I met him. So glad I met him. But I can’t. I have to make sure he knows there’s nothing here.

  I have to make sure my magic knows there’s nothing here.

  “I’ve always been on your side, terrible mentor or not,” he says. He does not look away from me, not for a single second, and I force myself to keep my eyes on his.

  I won’t be the one to look away first.

  I shrug. “You never had a choice. Neither of us did.”

  “Why are you doing this? Did you seriously follow me out here just to pick a fight with me?”

  “I’m not picking a fight. I just need to make sure you understand.” My voice rises, and I try to keep it together.

  “I understand perfectly. I never even wanted this, for Sun’s sake. I moved here to study, not be your babysitter.” He pauses, looks at me. “And between the two of us, Clara, I’m not the one who’s confused. I never was.”

  Sang turns and walks away.

  “I’m not confused,” I shout after him, but my voice sounds shrill and unsteady.

  He throws his hands up and keeps walking.

  I can’t believe I let Paige worry me over Sang. If he were more to me than a training partner, the sight of him storming off wouldn’t be a relief. It wouldn’t be okay.

  But it is.

  And even though I wish I didn’t have to say those things to Sang, I feel better. Because now I know with absolute certainty that there will never be a reason for my magic to seek him out.

  We can keep training together.

  I can keep getting stronger.

  Strong enough that my magic never hurts anyone else ever again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “There will come a time when you believe you no longer need to be challenged. And when that time comes, you’ll be wrong.”

  —A Season for Everything

  Sang is standing on the control field when I arrive for our last training session of the season. His stance is rigid, and he doesn’t smile when he sees me.

  He’s still mad.

  There’s a large, dark rain cloud hovering next to him, and I assume we’ll be working on hail or sleet. But he doesn’t say anything.

  With one swift motion, he shoves the cloud at me, hard, and the energy from it knocks me back.

  “What the hell?”

  He shoves the cloud again.

  “Seriously, Sang, what is wrong with you?”

  “You’re not the only one who can pick a fight,” he says. “Or did you think that was a talent only you had?”

  Now I’m angry. “Wow, get over yourself.” I shove the cloud as hard as I can back in his direction.

  He’s expecting it, though, and he stays where he is. He closes his eyes and fills the cloud even more, this huge, dark presence between us.

  This time, he throws the cloud over my head, and before I have time to move, he squeezes his hand. The cloud bursts, and I’m drenched in rain.

  I stalk over to him and shove him hard on the shoulder. He stumbles back.

  “Use your magic,” he says. His voice is low but rough, and it causes a weird sensation deep in my core.

  I yell in frustration. As quickly as I can, I pull moisture from the snow-covered grass until a thunderstorm cloud sits heavy in front of me. It takes just seconds. Winters aren’t as capable with thunderstorms, but I can control a small one.

  Besides, I’m not using it for thunder or lightning.

  I send an intense current of air straight up into the storm, pushing droplets of water into the coldest part until they freeze. Hailstones form, dozens of them, and I let the storm take over. The hailstones descend into warmer air, gather more water, then lift and freeze again, over and over, until the updraft of air can no longer support their weight.

  I throw the storm at Sang at the exact moment hail starts to drop. The hailstones are larger than I intended, and one after another, they pelt him in the face. He jumps out of the way and covers his head with his hands, but it’s too late. There’s a huge gash on his lip, bright red with blood, and another cut on his forehead.

  “Sang, I’m sorry—” I start, but before I can get to him, a small tornado, no larger than a person, slams into me.

  If it were spring, Sang never could have done that safely. His magic would be too strong, and the tornado would be too powerful. Lucky for me, it’s winter.

  Still, it’s enough to knock me off my feet. I hit the snow, and my whole body gets hot with anger. I push myself to standing. With shaking hands, I form a tiny snowba
ll, then roll it onto the ground.

  I close my eyes and send my magic chasing after it. The snowball picks up speed, getting larger and larger as it goes. I send it around the perimeter of the field, picking up layer after layer of snow until it’s taller than I am.

  I’m about to send the giant snowball tearing toward Sang, wanting to knock him to the ground and bury him in snow, when he motions to the trees.

  At his command, they bend over and block the path directly in front of the snowball. I don’t have enough time to change its course, and it slams into the trees and explodes, sending snow everywhere.

  “Not bad for someone who just fusses around with plants, huh?”

  I don’t answer. I’m so mad I can’t think straight. In the time it takes for Sang to throw my words back at me, winter magic pours from my fingers in a flood of rage. I build a small, intense blizzard.

  I throw it at Sang, knowing he can’t do a thing about it. Spring magic can’t touch blizzards.

  He falls to the ground as the blizzard hammers him with snow and wind. Soon he’s almost buried, and I walk over and look down at him.

  “Not good enough.”

  Sang rolls out of the way and stands, sending a shower of warm rain over the blizzard. It dissipates the storm and douses me in the face.

  Then I think of our drill, the wind I’ve summoned over and over with him. I close my eyes, and the air answers instantly, building up a current I send directly at Sang. He dodges it and steps toward me, and I quickly change the wind’s course. It’s stronger than I thought, though, and it catches Sang in the back and tosses him toward me.

  We both fall backward. He lands right on top of me.

  It’s so windy that the snow on the ground rises into the air, swirling all around us. Sang tries to move off of me, but I’m not done yet, and soon we’re rolling around in the snow, me on top of him, him on top of me.

  Snow gets in my hair and down the neck of my jacket, sending cold water running down my skin. My hat fell off ages ago, and my hands are freezing.

  Our magic follows us around like shadows, his trying to help him, mine trying to help me. Even the calm that’s laced with his magic isn’t enough to relieve the anger between us. We grunt and grab and get tangled up in each other, refusing to relent.