“Did you put a spell on it?” I ask.
“How could I have done that if it’s poisonous to witches?”
I shake my head, staring at the bloom. I don’t understand, and I’m distraught that I don’t. Moonflower is the first plant I learned to identify because it’s so crucial to know what it looks like. So imperative to our survival. And here I am, holding one in my hand as if it’s a common lupine.
I scramble for anything that will make it make sense, that will tie up the threads unraveling in my mind, but I come up short.
A drop of sweat rolls down the back of my neck. Then, all at once, I come back to myself and realize what I’m doing and who I’m speaking with.
I drop the flower and jump back. My heart is beating so hard it feels as if it could crack my ribs.
“The old coven is gone,” I say.
“Now, how would you know that?” His voice is casual, taunting even, and heat rises to my face.
“I don’t know who you think you are, but this isn’t funny. The old coven doesn’t exist anymore.” This must be some kind of joke, some elaborate prank to humiliate me. But then I think back to the way the wind picked up, the way it felt on my face, and I know it’s real. I look at the flower on the ground and can’t stop the questions that cascade through my mind one after another. The loudest, most incessant one of all—the one that should be simplest to answer and yet feels as if it’s threatening everything I’ve ever known—repeats over and over again:
Why didn’t it hurt?
At that moment, a raw, guttural roar comes from the shoreline as the witches rush their magic in unison.
I whip around toward the sound. Dread moves through me in a slow, steady crawl.
No. This can’t be happening.
The sound gets more crazed the longer it goes on, and all I can do is stare in the direction of the sea, stunned. Then all at once, it stops.
The silence of the night takes over again, and my entire body begins to shake with terror.
I missed it.
I hear the waves of the ocean and the rustling of grass, the wind in the trees and the hoot of an owl. Then I remember the boy.
I slowly turn back around, but he’s gone.
My head falls into my hands, and I close my eyes, wishing with every part of me that I could go back in time to twenty minutes ago and ignore that damned light.
I can’t believe I missed it.
My legs finally react, and I run toward the shoreline and hide in the shrubs, watching as the witches wade out of the sea. The rush takes an enormous amount of energy, and they walk as if in slow motion.
No one can know I missed it. Not with my upcoming engagement and my mother’s place on the council. I wait until the eldest witches are past my hiding place, then run into the water and soak my gown. The fabric clings to my legs as I trudge up the shore. My parents are on the sidewalk, leaning into each other, and I slowly make my way to where they’re standing. We walk home together, but I can’t stop the shaking that has taken over my body.
The only person in recent memory who ever missed a rush was Lydia White almost twenty years ago.
She died ten days later from the excess magic building in her system.
No one has missed a rush since. We find a way to get everyone to this shore, no matter how difficult it may be.
My eyes fill with tears, and I take several breaths, not wanting my parents to see. Even if I told them what happened, there would be nothing for it. The only reason the rush works is because we use our collective power to make it happen.
An overwhelming sadness moves through me. My eyes burn, and it feels like shards of glass are lodged in my throat every time I try to swallow.
I can’t believe I missed it.
But I’ll fix this. I have to.
I start a countdown in my head: ten days. I have ten days to figure this out. If I don’t, my fate will be the same as Lydia White’s, and everything my coven has worked so hard for will be lost.
eight
I lie awake in bed, unable to sleep. The rush, the boy, the moonflower—it all swirls in my mind like a hurricane, threatening to destroy everything in its path. Landon’s sea glass trembles in my hand, dried blood still caked on the edges. I’m not sure why I didn’t think to clean it off.
The house is quiet. Dark. My parents will sleep in—the Witchery is closed the day after every rush. We simply don’t have the energy to run the island, and a day for recovery is necessary.
I replay the events of the rush over and over in my mind, but all I can focus on is the fact that I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be eaten alive by the magic I love so much. And I’m scared. Everything I know about Lydia White’s death points to a painful, excruciating ten days, and my palms sweat as I try to imagine what that might feel like.
I’m so angry at myself and so angry at that boy I had the utter misfortune of running into.
I know I’ll have to deal with him, figure out who he is and where he came from. But that can wait until after I’ve rushed my magic and saved my life.
I quietly get out of bed and place the sea glass on my night table, then slip back into my rushing gown. I open my bedroom door and sneak down the back staircase, though I know my parents will sleep through any noise. They’re spent, just as I should be.
When I’m out of the house, I stick to the shadows and run as fast as I can to the western edge of the island. I don’t see a single soul.
It has only been a few hours since the rush, and if the magic is still close to the shore, still swirling in the shallows and buzzing in the air, I can try to harness it to rush my own. It’s the best chance I have at fixing this.
It has to work. It’s the only way.
I trip as I splash into the waves, scraping my hands and knees on the beach. I stand back up and press on, wading out until the water touches my ribs. Hints of microcurrents form around my legs, and it’s the only time I’ve ever been happy to feel a current—it means I’m not too late, that the power of my coven is still in this place, waiting to set me free.
Please.
I raise my hands in front of me, palms up toward the full moon. I close my eyes and steady my breath, my heart slamming into my rib cage as a sharp pain starts in my chest.
I imagine myself in the back room of the perfumery, infusing magic into the dried flowers and herbs that make up our scents, small spells for calm, joy, excitement, confidence, assertiveness, all things our magic can summon and the mainlanders will pay for. I see myself hunched over the worn wooden island gathering lavender and sandalwood oil, lilac and wisteria. Magic swirls in my belly and rises, but I don’t let it go yet. I need more.
I go through the routine over and over, acting as if it’s just another day at the shop, as if I’m making the perfumes and candles I love, working as hard as I can to reach as much magic as possible. Magic has always felt like a natural extension of myself, something I don’t need to work at the way most others do, and I’m counting on that innate ability to help me.
The air around me vibrates with the energy the witches left here earlier, their excess magic agitating the sea, forming stronger currents that pick up speed. I widen my stance to keep my balance and take a deep breath.
This can work.
It’s going to work.
Water rises around me, sloshing in every direction, strong and cold and full of the power I so desperately need. When the water reaches my chin and I taste the salt on my lips, I begin my rush. I shoot my arms straight up to the sky and roar into the silent night, calling forth every ounce of magic I can.