The Nature of Witches

by Rachel Griffin

  No matter how many times we do this, the feel of rain on our hot skin will always be a victory. We’re getting stronger, and each session is a reminder of that strength. We’re still in the game.

  I tilt my head back and let the rain run down my face, wash the ash away, soothe the burning in my eyes from all the smoke. I wish Mr. Hart were here. I wish he knew that all the time, encouragement, and love he poured into me wasn’t a waste.

  I think he did know. It was me who had to learn.

  The last of the flames die out, the soot on the ground and the rising tendrils of smoke all that remains of the massive fire.

  Mr. Donovan officially ends the training, and the control field empties as the witches disperse, going to the dining hall or to the dial to relax. Ms. Suntile calls me over and introduces me to the officials, and I shake hands and answer questions and explain my magic as best I can.

  When they leave to continue their meeting in one of the conference rooms, I’m thankful to be excused. I turn around and see Sang waiting for me, and I rush over to him.

  “Oh my Sun, feed me,” I whine. I take his hand, and we head toward the dining hall, not even bothering to shower first.

  “You looked great out there,” he says, filling me with pride.

  It’s a hazy day on campus, low clouds hovering above Eastern, playing hide-and-seek with the sun. It’s warm, and the flowers on campus brighten everything, a celebration of summer and all its colors.

  I practically run toward the dining hall when it comes into view, the breakfast I had this morning long since forgotten. Paige walks out and hesitates when she sees us. We haven’t spoken much since the day of the cloudburst, since our fight. But the way she looks at me from across the control field and during classes makes me think we’re healing.

  “I know you just finished, but would you like to join us?” I ask.

  “No,” she says flatly, and I almost laugh.

  She turns to walk away, then pauses. “What you did was extraordinary, taking a risk like that. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  “I don’t think I could have done it without you,” I say, remembering her voice in our hotel room.

  Go.

  “Probably not,” Paige agrees. “You’ve always been an overthinker.” Her eyes move between Sang and me, and her expression changes, but I’m not sure what it means. She looks almost vulnerable. Then it passes, and she walks away.

  “She’s maybe the most winter winter I’ve ever met,” Sang says when she’s gone.

  “I know. I like that about her.”

  “Me too.”

  We walk into the dining hall, and when I’ve piled my tray with as much food as I can manage, Jessica calls us over to the summer table.

  “Sit,” she says, motioning to two empty seats.

  We talk about magic and the wildfire training for a few minutes, and then the conversation shifts to after-graduation plans and upcoming trips and inside jokes and the Summer Ball. We laugh and talk over each other and laugh some more.

  This should have been my experience here all along, and it hurts, thinking about all the meals I ate in my cabin, all the ways I avoided people, all the time I spent alone. Mr. Hart and Nox were my best friends—my only friends—and I wish I could go back in time and hug my younger self, tell her it wouldn’t always be that way.

  I’m so happy to be here in this loud dining hall with clanking dishes and so many voices. Sang’s hand brushes against mine while we eat, his pinkie wrapping around my own. It’s such a casual thing, a small touch in the middle of this too-loud room, and yet it’s everything.

  When we’re done eating and leave the dining hall, Sang walks me to my cabin before heading to his apartment.

  “It’s too bad you didn’t get a chance to move back into one of the houses,” he says as I open the door and walk inside.

  “I would have liked that,” I say. “Although, this secluded cabin beneath the cover of the trees has its benefits.” I give Sang a meaningful look, keeping my eyes on his as I walk backward to my bed.

  “It certainly does,” he agrees, taking my hand when I reach for him. I pull him toward me, and we crash onto the bed. He lands on top of me and props himself up on his elbow, his fingers playing with my hair. His hand is smudged with paint, and I smile to myself.

  “Did I tell you I used your dream elixir?”

  His entire face lights up. He looks so happy, and it’s this reaction I want to elicit over and over again, forever ever ever.

  “I used it right before I left for the cloudburst. I put it on my wrists and neck and spoke my wish out loud,” I say, committing to memory the way he looks right now.

  “What did you wish for?”

  “That it would work.”

  “And it did,” he says, a huge smile spreading across his face, dimples and bright eyes and so much joy.

  “It did.” I pause then, heart hammering in my chest. I’m saving the words, can’t say them yet, but I want him to know. “But I think it had a side effect.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks, fingers still tangled in my hair.

  “Do you remember when I said my resolve was rather strong?”

  “I do,” he says, watching me.

  I swallow hard. “I was wrong,” I say simply.

  If Sang’s smile lit up my room before, it’s now the Sun herself. He could light the whole world.

  And I bask in it.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “There are two things you should know up front. One: your magic is dangerous. Two: you can learn to control it.”

  —A Season for Everything

  Today is the last day of summer, and the Sun hangs on to it as if she has something to prove. I’m an official graduate of the Eastern School of Solar Magic, and it feels better than I ever thought it would. As the autumnal equinox approaches, I’m not nervous or scared.

  I’m content. Ready.

  I’m standing on the control field, waiting for Sang. The Sun gives up her place in the sky, and dusk settles over the vast field with a heathered shade of blue that makes everything feel peaceful. So much has happened on this field, but it no longer holds only pain for me. It also holds my successes and progress and hope.

  In a few hours, the field will be full of witches celebrating the equinox, welcoming autumn. The sweet scent of spiced cider will fill the air, and people will laugh and talk beneath the dark expanse of night.

  But I have my own plans.

  Sang walks onto the field, a picnic basket hanging from one arm and blankets draped over the other, and my heart falters at the sight of him. Maybe one day I’ll be used to it, to the way his mouth pulls into a smile the instant he sees me, but not today.

  “Hi,” he says, setting the basket on the ground and wrapping his arms around me. I melt into him, into his broad chest and earthy smell and strong arms, and for just a moment, I forget that I’m leaving tomorrow.

  I’m moving to London to work with the Solar Magic Association on developing a protocol for how and when to use my magic. Shaders from some of the most prestigious organizations in the world will be there, too, working on it with us.

  Instead of witches dying from depletion, their magic will be amplified. They’ll be able to help. They’ll be safe. And even though our world is suffering, struggling to breathe, I’m hopeful that our magic, combined with the shaders’ work, will make a difference.

  Will make the difference.

  Sang pulls away and delivers a small kiss to my lips, then picks up the basket.

  “You’re very prepared,” I say.

  “I just like my girl to be comfortable.” The words fill my chest with a pressure I can’t explain, as if my heart is expanding to hold everything I feel for him. “Shall we?” he asks.

  I walk to the trail with Sang behind me, and we begin our climb. It�
��s quiet under the canopy of the trees in this space between day and night when everything seems to still. We hike up in comfortable silence, our breaths mingling with the wind.

  It’s my first time going to the meadow with Sang. Not alone to leave a message for him, wishing I could talk to him, see him, touch him. We’re going together.

  My breaths come heavier as the trail inclines, and knowing he’s one step behind me fills me up the way air fills my lungs.

  His presence, his existence, means so much to me. He doesn’t have to do anything or say anything—he just has to be. That’s all I want.

  We chase the light as we continue up, an infinite twilight that sees us through to the top.

  When we get to the meadow, our meadow, I’m at a loss for words. Sang catches up to me, and we stand at the edge in silence. The full moon rises overhead, illuminating our flowers so they seem as if they’re glowing, iridescent, reflecting the stars.

  I can’t believe this is the last time I’ll see our meadow. Maybe other witches on campus will discover it, and it will become their secret place. Maybe they’ll sit beneath our birch tree and find solace, peace, calm. Maybe they’ll come here to laugh or cry or think or paint. Maybe they’ll have conversations through flowers the way Sang and I did.

  Sang takes my hand, and we walk to our birch tree. He throws a blanket over the dirt, and we sit down, looking at all the flowers that surround us.

  “It really isn’t an efficient form of communication,” he says, and I lean my head into him and laugh.

  “It really isn’t.”

  He kisses my forehead and drapes the other blanket over our laps, then pulls out a thermos of hot tea. He sets a big piece of chocolate cake between us.

  “You sure do know the way to my heart,” I say, taking a sip of tea.

  “That’s the idea,” he says.

  Our eyes meet, and I can’t look away. I want to memorize their depth, the way the center of gold, of sunlight, trails into rich brown, the way they crinkle at the edges when he laughs.

  Sang pulls out a single candle and puts it in the piece of cake. He lights it, and against a backdrop of branches rustling and crickets chirping, sings me “Happy Birthday.” Then he hands me a package wrapped in white paper, secured with dried herbs and twine.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Open it and see.”

  I tear open the wrapping paper, and inside is a hardbound journal. The words A Season for Everything are engraved on the cover in gold letters. When I flip through the pages, there are four section breaks, one for each season, each with a different flower that Sang painted himself.

  “For your book,” he says.

  I’m speechless, and I run my fingers over the forest-green cover, trying to find the right words to say. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.

  “Sang, this is amazing,” I manage to get out around the lump that has formed in my throat. “Thank you.” I lean in and kiss him, and he smiles against my lips.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I love it.”

  He kisses me again, then looks out over the meadow. “You know what I’ve been thinking about?” he asks, his voice quiet and deep in thought.

  “What’s that?”

  “Lightning.” He holds his hand out in front of him and pulls moisture from the ground until he’s formed the smallest cumulonimbus cloud, hovering above his open palm, stirring in the space between us.

  “It doesn’t matter where you are when you see it,” he says, the storm above his hand lighting up with a flash. “Thunder will always follow.” And with that, the small cloud rumbles. He takes my hand and transfers his mini thunderstorm to me.

  I laugh at it, so small and contained, and when I command another lightning strike, the electromagnetic charge moves through my body with ease. Totally natural.

  Sang stands and walks to the far end of the meadow. He motions with his arm and pulls from my storm until he has a thundercloud in front of him as well.

  Two parts of the same storm, separated by a field of wildflowers.

  Summer magic flows through me, and I make another lightning strike. Seconds later, Sang’s thundercloud claps in response. He takes one step closer to me.

  My storm lights up again, Sang’s cloud thunders in response, and he takes another step closer.

  Lightning.

  Thunder.

  One more step.

  With each cycle, Sang gets closer and closer until he’s back on the blanket. He sits down next to me, and I command one last bolt of lightning. The storms are so close together now that his thunder rumbles immediately after.

  “You’re my lightning,” he finally says, his voice low, still playing with the storms in front of us. “And thunder always follows lightning.”

  I look at him, my mouth dry and my heart slamming into my ribs as if it’s trying to get out to hear him better.

  “Always?” I ask.

  He takes my free hand and weaves his fingers through mine.

  “Always,” he confirms, the word pouring over me, soothing me like one of his balms.

  With lightning in our hands and stars above our heads, I pull Sang into me and kiss him, greedy, deep, long, and eager, soaking up every drop of him before I leave.

  The storms dissipate in front of us, and I lie on my back, pulling Sang down with me.

  He wraps his arms around me, and I do the same to him, clutching each other like we’ll never let go, like I won’t be moving thirty-five hundred miles away tomorrow. His lips are on my mouth, my neck, my chest, and I hold his face between my hands, run my fingers through his hair and down his back.

  The autumnal equinox is in seven minutes.

  I kiss him for all seven, touching him, memorizing the way his body feels against my own, the way my worries yield to him and my brain stops racing in his presence.

  The way I feel as if I’m enough, as if I’ve always been enough.

  Thirty seconds.

  I roll onto my side and look at Sang. “Will you keep your eyes on mine when the season changes?”

  “Of course.”

  I lace my fingers with his and hold on tight, but I’m not scared.

  Three.

  I won’t let go.

  Two.

  I won’t.

  One.

  Autumn

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “It won’t always be easy. In fact, there will be days that are so miserable you’ll wonder why you do this at all. But I promise you one thing: it will be worth it.”

  —A Season for Everything

  I let go of Sang’s hand. I let go because I don’t need to anchor myself to him to know that I love him. I let go because I’m certain I’ll want to reach out again.

  I let go because letting go doesn’t mean what it used to.

  I keep my eyes on his as I tell him what I’ve never been able to tell anyone else on the first day of autumn. “I love you,” I say, confident and sure.

  He brushes a stray piece of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my skin.

  And he smiles because he already knows.

  Acknowledgments

  This book is my wildest dream come true. Thank you so much for reading it.

  I have dreamed of being an author since I was ten years old, and it is only because of the support and encouragement of so many people that this is now my reality. I doubt I will ever be able to convey the depths of my gratitude, but I’m sure going to try.

  First, to Elana Roth Parker, my incredible agent who pulled me from the slush pile and saw the potential in this story. Thank you for fighting for my dreams and being such a fierce champion for my work.

  Laura Dail Literary Agency, especially Samantha Fabien—thank you for your enthusiasm and support.

  To my
amazing editor, Annie Berger. You saw straight to the heart of this story and helped me turn it into something I’m immensely proud of. Thank you for your brilliant insight and being so wonderful to work with—your love for this story has made it so much stronger.

  To the entire Sourcebooks Fire team, including Cassie Gutman, for turning my manuscript into a book that shines, Alison Cherry, Caitlin Lawler, and everyone else working behind the scenes to bring The Nature of Witches into the world. To Beth Oleniczak, thank you for your excitement and tireless work to get this book into the hands of readers. To Nicole Hower, for designing the cover of my dreams, Monica Lazar for the incredible photo, and Michelle Mayhall for the gorgeous interior—I blame all of you for the hours I’ve lost to staring at this book. And finally, thank you to my publisher, Dominique Raccah. I could not imagine a more perfect home for this story.

  Rachel Lynn Solomon, I am forever grateful that you were my first writer friend. Thank you for being my sounding board, answering my most ridiculous publishing questions, and letting me introduce you to flatbreads. I love you.

  Adrienne and Kristin, Annie Porter from the nineties classic Speed says that relationships that start under intense circumstances never last. But ours has, and I’m so thankful.

  Adrienne, thank you for inviting me on that retreat and then never letting go. I can’t wait for our next five-hour dinner. Kristin, your fierce loyalty and the way you support your people astounds me. I will never forget the way you scream-cried when I sold this book. Isabel, thank you for being so incredibly generous with your time and talents. You’re my favorite late-summer / early autumn witch. Adalyn, you inspire me to dream big for myself and believe those things are possible. Thank you for never letting me forget my worth. Shelby, thank you for not leaving the group chat when you discovered what a crier I am. Your steady presence is everything, and I cannot wait to hug you in person. I love you all.

  Thank you to this book’s early readers, many of whom read it several times. Your feedback and encouragement mean so much: Christine Lynn Herman (whose brilliant suggestion to write epigraphs has stayed with this novel in every iteration), Jenny Howe, Miranda Santee, Tyler Griffin, Rachel Lynn Solomon, Heather Ezell, Tara Tsai, Courtney Kae, and finally, Rosiee Thor, whose unfailing belief in this book pulled me through my worst moments of doubt.