He says it to be reassuring, but the ring of fire was a game too—a silly, no-stakes-attached game that went wrong. So horribly wrong.
I don’t feel any safer using my magic to grow daffodils than I do using it to stop a blizzard.
Still, I smile and shove my worries aside. I have to work with other witches if I want to realize the full extent of my power. I might as well start now.
Mr. Burrows arrives at the garden just as the bell rings, but Sang is with him, a jar of seeds in his hand. Every part of me tenses up. I want to run to him, touch him, hear his voice and feel his calming magic.
But more than that, I want him to leave, because he can’t be anywhere near me. Can’t be anywhere near my magic.
I walk over to Mr. Burrows. “What is he doing here?” I ask. My words sound almost frantic. I wish Sang would look anywhere other than my face, but he doesn’t—he keeps his eyes on me.
“We’re using spring magic for your exercise today. It makes sense for him to be here,” Mr. Burrows says.
But I take a step back.
“He can’t be here,” I say, my voice quiet but urgent.
“Clara,” Sang starts. I cut him off.
“No,” I say.
Mr. Burrows looks between us, and understanding sparks in his eyes.
“I thought you may have gotten close,” he says, more to himself than to me. I wince anyway. “That’s not a judgment, Clara. He’s easy to like.”
“Please,” I say. “I can’t do this exercise with him here.”
“He’ll be off to the side with me, observing—”
“He can’t be here!” I shout, cutting him off and surprising myself with the shrillness in my voice. The springs stop talking, and everyone stares at me, waiting to see what will happen next.
Mr. Burrows holds up his hands and nods. “Okay, whatever you’re comfortable with.” He doesn’t mean it. He’s only saying it because he got his way, because I’ve already used his winter magic.
Sang’s jaw is tense, and his eyes are still trained on me. I look at him, desperate, pleading. He swallows hard.
“The last thing I want is for you to be terrified of who you are,” he says, his voice quiet and sad. He hands the jar of seeds to Mr. Burrows and walks away, and I’m relieved and devastated at the same time.
Would you still love me if I weren’t a witch?
It was an impossible thing to ask. Sang would never be okay with me giving up my power for him, which is one of the reasons I fell as hard as I did, one of the reasons I’m sure my heart no longer belongs to me.
But I still wanted to hear a yes slip from his lips.
Impossible.
I shove away my question and shove away his silence.
Mr. Burrows clears his throat. “Shall we begin?” he asks, looking at Mr. Donovan.
Mr. Donovan nods and starts to explain the exercise. It’s easy enough: we’ll dampen the soil with rain, plant the seeds, then accelerate their growth, using only spring magic. Once we’re done, we should have a pretty row of daffodils bordering the garden.
I stand next to Ari, and the rest of the springs line up on the other side of her. The goal is to find Ari’s magic, and once I have a solid grasp on it, try to pull from the others as well until I have a strong, powerful stream of spring magic.
I’ve only ever pulled magic from one witch at a time, and my heart races even though we haven’t started yet. I take a steadying breath; nobody’s life is on the line, like Mr. Donovan said.
Except it always feels like there is when my magic’s involved.
“Okay, Clara, take it away,” Mr. Donovan says.
I glance at Mr. Burrows, who’s standing off to the side with a clipboard, taking notes. For some reason, it enrages me—he treats me as if I’m a lab animal being used for research. It’s all about how far he can push me and push my magic. He gets excited when I accomplish something new, and then it’s on to the next maze, the next exercise, the next test.
I’m so tired.
I take a breath and tell Ari to call up her magic. Her short, curly hair bounces with her movements, and I feel when she settles into herself and brings her magic to the surface.
Then I get started.
I find her magic right away, calm and steady, and she laughs when I pull it toward me, as if she’s utterly delighted.
I get to work on forming a basic cumulus cloud that we can fill with rain and use to dampen the soil, but before I’ve even tried to add another witch’s magic, I tense up.
Ari and I have been at Eastern together for over ten years. We’ve never been particularly close, but we’ve always been friendly. Does my magic recognize her?
And what about Mr. Donovan? He’s been my teacher since I was in middle school.
Then there’s Melanie, who photocopied all her notes and brought them to my cabin the week I had the flu last year. She even brought soup with her. We don’t know each other well, but did her generosity and thoughtfulness create a connection between us that my magic can sense?
It’s overwhelming, the worries and what-ifs and questions I might never have the answers to. I’m so afraid of hurting another person.
I try to hold on to the cloud, but all my fear makes it vanish, as if wrapped in warm air.
Ari gives me a questioning look.
“Start again,” Mr. Burrows says with irritation.
I shake out my arms, trying to dispel the nervous energy coursing through me. Then I do as I’m told.
I close my eyes and let the impulsive, fiery magic of summer be replaced with the peaceful stillness of spring, a held breath in no rush to discover where I’ll send it.
It waits for me, and when I start to gather moisture in the air, it flows from me in cautious streams, as if it knows I’m scared.
Finally, another cloud forms.
“Everyone call your magic to the surface,” Mr. Donovan says. “It’s there when you’re ready, Clara.”
I nod and slowly feel for the other springs, their magic rising to greet me the way dogs greet their owners, excited and happy and eager.
I start pulling, but this entire garden reminds me of Sang, of the moments we spent together before we played the ring of fire and everything changed.
Sang being chased by lightning.
Sang flying through the air.
Sang slamming into the ground.
I don’t trust anything anymore, don’t trust that a single person here is truly safe.
I can’t do it.
I drop my hands and open my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Mr. Donovan. Then I turn to Mr. Burrows. “I’m done. I’m not doing this.”
“Yes, you are,” he says. “This exercise is a necessary part of your training. You’re ready for it.”
“It’s not up to you.” I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder.
“We aren’t done here,” he says, each word strained and tight, ready to snap. Everyone is watching us; even Mr. Donovan doesn’t look away.
I don’t say anything as I pass him and leave the garden.
“This is a failing grade,” he calls, his last attempt to bring me back.
“Then fail me,” I say without slowing my steps.
For a moment, it’s freeing, acting as if I don’t care, acting as if the consequences don’t matter to me. And maybe they don’t, not when it comes to Mr. Burrows.
But I have a very powerful, very volatile magic inside me, and I have to figure out how to live with it.
And if I can’t, I must decide if I can live without it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“In the summer, I fall in love with every soul I come across, even if just for a moment.”
—A Season for Everything
Mr. Burrows calls me into his office first thing the next morning
. Ms. Suntile is present as well, and he says that I must make up the session I walked out on. He tells me I wasted everyone’s time and that I owe Mr. Donovan an apology.
When Ms. Suntile interrupts him to ask why I left, I tell her the truth: I didn’t feel ready. I didn’t feel in control.
And to my amazement and gratitude, she says I did the right thing, that I should never be forced to use my magic if it feels erratic in any way. She says they’ve pushed me hard this year and that perhaps I’m due a break.
I’m not sure why she has come to my defense so strongly, but it matters more than she knows. She says I can make up the group session after the eclipse and that I don’t have to worry about it until then.
And while I don’t know how to stop worrying about it, I’m grateful for the days off from training and the days away from Mr. Burrows.
I walk back to my cabin feeling a little lighter than I did when I woke up this morning, and that’s something. It’s small, but it’s something.
When I get inside, I change out of my jeans and put on leggings and a tank top. I lace up my running shoes and take a long drink of water. I rarely exercise in autumn or winter, favoring late nights and long novels to early mornings and cold temperatures. But spring and summer drive me outside, and I step out of my cabin and run. Run from the image of Sang’s face when I left his apartment; run from the memory of his mouth on mine; run from the way the world slowed and my mind stilled when I was with him.
Run from everything.
It’s a warm morning, and I start sweating right away. I pass the houses and the dial, the library and the dining hall, and weave through the gardens until I’m out past the control field and see the trails in the distance.
Birds are chirping, and a slight breeze moves through the trees, rustling the branches. My hair is in a ponytail, frizzy curls hitting my back as I go. I wish my legs could carry me faster, could outrun my mind.
My breaths are even and deep, getting heavier by the time I finally reach the trail that’s become my lifeline.
I run along the path, my legs burning and my lungs heaving as I climb the mountainside. I jump over rocks and exposed roots, getting higher and higher.
When I finally reach the meadow, I stop and catch my breath. It gets denser every day, new wildflowers popping up, and I know they must be from Sang because of how quickly they appear, how fast the meadow changes.
I walk to the birch tree, careful not to crush any flowers, and sit in the dirt surrounding its trunk. I lean against it and close my eyes, listening to the way the leaves move with the wind, the way my breath mixes with the sounds of nature.
And then, because I can’t help it, because I miss Sang so much it physically hurts, I get on my knees and press my hands into the dirt, feeding all my emotions to the soil. A single spotted wintergreen rises up from the ground, a bright-green stem giving way to tiny white flowers. They open up in unison and sigh as if perfectly content.
Spotted wintergreens are the flowers that grow from longing.
It is the only flower in the dirt surrounding the birch, and I know he’ll see it.
I check my watch and slowly stand. I stretch my legs and roll my shoulders, getting ready for the run back to my cabin. I look at the wintergreen once more, then step through the meadow until I’m back under the cover of the trees.
I begin my descent, but the sound of a twig breaking in the distance stops me. I know I should keep going, should run down the trail and not risk being seen, but I can’t. I slowly turn and tuck myself behind a large evergreen, watching the meadow.
Sang appears in the distance, his bag over his shoulder. He walks around the far end of the meadow and through to the birch, our birch, and sets his bag on the dirt. He pushes his palm against the trunk of the tree and exhales, so heavy I can hear it from here.
He turns and stops, his head tilted toward the ground. He stands there for several seconds, staring at the spotted wintergreen, then crouches beside it and touches the petals. He stands up and looks around, and I duck behind the evergreen, out of sight.
My heart pounds, my legs aching to go to him.
But I stay where I am.
I take a deep breath and risk another peek at the meadow. Sang is no longer looking around and instead sits in front of the flower cross-legged, watching it. He shakes his head. Then he carefully pushes his hands into the soil next to it, and a cardinal flower punches through the surface, long green stem rising toward the sun, vibrant red leaves spilling every which way. It’s so close to my spotted wintergreen that its leaves brush the white petals.
Cardinal flowers grow from frustration.
I lean back against the evergreen and close my eyes.
I’m relieved, so relieved that we have this secret way of communicating. Fully separate from one another, perfectly safe.
Sang is frustrated, and I almost laugh at how glad I am to know it.
Maybe it will be tortuous, communicating in this way. Maybe the whole meadow will soon be filled with cardinal flowers that do nothing to ease the hurt inside us.
And yet, the next morning, I run the same route, through campus and up the trail to this perfect meadow beyond the trees. I kneel beside the cardinal and touch the earth, a perfect purple coneflower rising to greet me. The deep-orange center is perched upon delicate purple petals that point to the ground, the perfect flower for apologies.
I look at the three flowers side by side. Other than yelling at him to leave the group session, it’s our only conversation since that day in Sang’s apartment.
I miss you.
I’m frustrated.
I’m sorry.
Over the next three weeks, we add to our conversation, wildflowers taking over the dirt surrounding our birch tree. Baby blue eyes to say I’m relieved, bull thistle to say he’s angry, blanketflowers to say I’m ashamed, Queen Anne’s lace to say he’s hurt, chicory to say I’m sad, more chicory because he’s sad, too, and so much spotted wintergreen, longing everywhere.
We go back and forth, planting our vulnerability and hurt and desire for the other to see. We’re honest with each other. We open ourselves up, each trusting the other to see us for who we are.
And we do.
We see each other. I think we always have.
A new flower punctuates the end of our conversation—a single iris to say he loves me.
Every emotion beautiful, every reaction valid, each flower stunning in its own way.
It doesn’t erase the hurt or pain or fear or longing. But it makes it more manageable, knowing we’re in it together.
I think deep down, he understands that this had to happen. He knows I could never keep him safe, and he’d make the same decision if our roles were reversed. And while I’m so mad at the Sun for cursing my magic the way she has, I can’t regret that she brought Sang to me.
The eclipse is in two days, and while I still let myself consider what it might be like to get stripped of magic and live a new life, I don’t know if I can go through with it. I used to be so sure, but this past year has complicated everything, and part of me mourns for the certainty I once had. Stay for the eclipse, get stripped, never let another person die from my magic.
Be with Sang, knowing he would be safe. If he still wanted me, that is.
I’d lose a lot, but I’d gain a lot too.
But now I think about all the witches who have died from depletion, risking their lives by stretching their magic in the off-season, something that is entirely natural for me. Something that feels right, like all my pieces fall into place when I’m pulling power from a season that’s fast asleep.
And I think about the shaders who are finally having conversations with us, who are finally accepting their roles in all this and looking for ways to reverse their course.
I could help bridge the gap, stabilize the atmosphere now while we work to heal it
in the future.
It’s a messy, complicated choice that has a clear right answer. But I’m a messy, complicated human, and I’m selfish and tired and want more for myself than a life of longing and isolation.
I look down at the iris, and my eyes fill with tears. I know Sang would still love me if I weren’t a witch—I know it the same way I know that hot air rises and broccoli is a flower.
Next to the iris, I touch the earth and pour one more feeling into the soil. Wild bergamot rises up before me, a perfect lavender flower that grows from absolute adoration.
I adore you.
I watch as the pompom bloom sways in the breeze, completing the conversation until we return after the eclipse.
Then I run down the trail, leaving part of myself for Sang to find.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“It is not your job to protect the people who hurt you.”
—A Season for Everything
I’m rushing around my cabin, packing my bag for the evacuation today. The path of totality crosses directly over Eastern, so we’re heading a few hours away, where we can watch the partial eclipse and keep our connections to the sun.
Every witch has to evacuate the path, leaving it wide open to whatever the atmosphere has in store. It’s risky. But totality only lasts for a few minutes, then it’ll be safe for the witches to return. There’s no other option.
I’m about to zip my duffel when the dream elixir Sang gave me catches my eye. I’ve never used it because I don’t want it to run out, but I take off its small cap and smell the amber liquid every night before bed. It’s part of my routine now, and I wrap the vial in layers of tissue and tuck it in the folds of my sweatshirt, not wanting to go a night without it.
Nox is following me around like a shadow in the sun, sensing my imminent departure. I fill his food and water bowls and give him lots of scratches. He’s been with me through my worst, and I wonder if I’d be okay if it was just Nox and magic and me.
I wouldn’t be as happy as I could be, or as content, or as joyful. But maybe I’d be okay. And maybe okay would be enough.
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