Which, is something I was once told, that only people with money say.
I seem to be doing quite a bit of questioning my place in the world today, particularly in relation to others.
No wonder I’m having panic attacks.
A spark of electricity strikes my shoulder, and I jump at the jolt. I look over at Flora, who is grinning wickedly.
Two more sparks flick from her fingertips and strike me in the foot, making me hop and dance in place.
“You’re it!” she says, and then takes off running.
Flora grabs one of the many brooms lying about and hops aboard it, side-saddle. Then she is zooming up into the air.
Even in my depressed state, I cannot ignore the challenge. Brooms has been a favorite game of ours since we were witchlings.
I stretch out my hand and summon a large, ornate broom that rests against one of the majestic oaks dotting the space. The broom comes to me, waking up and heeding my call.
The hard wood of the handle smacks my palm in a pleasant manner, and I swing one leg over, leaning forward over the shaft before leaping into the air.
As it has for as long as I can remember, magic carries and lifts me. I whistle, and tiny Park Pixies appear around me, their wings flitting faster than a hummingbird’s, their auras shimmering like glitter around them. Along with the structures and toys, magical treehouses and legendary obstacle courses, the Park Pixies of Cherry Gardens are one of the coolest things I’ve ever encountered, and I’ve lived a pretty magical life.
The tiny, beautiful creatures braid my hair as I fly through the air, pulling it back into two french braids and adding flowers and colorful strings before taking off to attend to other witches.
The Gardens are busy, and I swerve around other witches in their own game of Brooms as I chase after my sister. An airborne form of Tag, You’re It!
I’ve always been faster than Flora on a broom, but there are few witches more clever than my little sister, and knocking her off her mount has never been easy.
I lean forward further still, my body parallel with the broom, wind whipping against my face as I dodge around the trees and structures, weaving between pixies and witches alike.
Flora races up ahead, pinwheeling on her mount, twisting through branches, and somehow avoiding collision with others. I see the girls below, chasing each other through the largest treehouse on the grounds, poking their heads out of leaf curtains and running among the tiny lizards that call the trees home.
The sky changes as I fly through it, going from the sunny glow of day to the star-flecked canvas of night, as it does every twenty minutes or so. Stars replace the fluffy clouds, the moon appearing in place of the sun. A comet blazes across the dark blanket of the universe, and I know every witch here is casting a wish to the Goddess above.
My wishes flash through my head with the same unstoppable brilliance, there and gone before I can halt them, the light of them lingering behind my eyes.
I wish Edmond Harvey Jackson were still alive…
I wish I was not such a coward…
I wish I had done the right thing…
And…
Was it too late to make it right?
Fuck.
Just… Fuck.
8 6:30 p.m.
“It’s dangerous. Like, really, really dangerous, Mir.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know.”
Flora shakes her head. “I’m not sure you do. I’m not sure either of us do.” She glances toward the doorway to the parlor, and I know she is thinking of Winter and Echo.
As am I.
But it was the right thing to do… Wasn’t it?
“What do you think the Coven will do?” I ask.
“You know what’s fucked up?” Flora says. “I’m not sure whose reaction to be more afraid of; the humans or the Coven.”
She gestures toward the MacBook in my hand. “You gonna look, or what?”
I stare into the fireplace and tug the blanket up tighter around me. Without looking at the device, I slide it toward her, where she sits beside me on the rug.
“Will you?” I ask.
Flora releases a slow breath and opens the Mac. My heart races as she powers it up and clicks some keys. The lump has returned to my throat. This time, I am ready with the chamomile tea. I sip it and stare into the flames as she scans the screen for answers.
I watch with bated breath as she reads the article.
“They aren’t saying much,” she says after a terribly long moment.
I wait, resisting the urge to grab the computer and have a look for myself.
Flora clears her throat. “This is in the Philly Gazette… ‘At approximately one a.m. on Saturday morning police responded to a call in east Philadelphia regarding a robbery. A suspect was shot and pronounced dead at the scene. There are no further details at this time.’”
No further details at this time.
Well, that was bull-fucking-shit.
The man they shot was unarmed–there was a Goddess damned detail for you. Also, how could he be responsible for a robbery when he had been busy at the time saving my life?
Saving my life.
Fuck.
I stare into the fireplace, watching the flames dance. My sister sits silently beside me.
I think most people like to think of themselves as good. Sure, we all make mistakes, and sometimes, our worse nature wins out. But most of the time, I don’t think people wake up thinking, How can I be an asshole today?
It would follow that most of us like to think that when we are faced with a choice between doing what is obviously right, and doing what is wrong, we would do what is right.
However, the longer I live, the more I learn that life is rarely black and white, rarely a simple choice between right and wrong.
This situation was no exception.
“Alright, so say you want people to know what you know,” Flora says. “How do you go about that?”
I tell her about the visit from the Warlock. This makes
