What he didn’t factor in was how I’d cope if he died.
But he probably mapped the trajectory of the tornado and knew it was headed away from the farm. He thought he was safe where he was, and had I not tried to intervene, he would still be alive.
When I first found out, I was sure my heart would never beat again, would never be able to pump with the thick layer of grief and guilt clinging to it. But I’m still here, destined to live with all the absences I’ve created.
I think of the wrapped gift sitting on my bedside table, the gift I can’t bring myself to open. He was so excited to give it to me, and I don’t think I can handle never getting the chance to say thank you. I’ve been in a fog ever since I found out about his death, and at the worst moments, it feels as if I might never emerge from it. Maybe I won’t.
“Clara, they’re ready for you now,” Ms. Beverly says.
I grab my crutches and slowly make my way into Ms. Suntile’s office. She is sitting behind her desk with Sang and Mr. Burrows, the man who was at my last training session with Mr. Hart. I feel sick to my stomach. I give Sang a questioning glance, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. The bruise around his eye has gotten darker, and I remember how steadily he held my forehead after I was cut, how he didn’t shy away from the blood.
“Have a seat, Ms. Densmore,” Ms. Suntile says, banishing the memory. “This is Allen Burrows, whom you met briefly, and you already know our advanced botany student, Sang Park. They both come to us from the Western School of Solar Magic.”
Knots form in my stomach when I remember Sang telling me he’s here to study under his mentor. I haven’t forgotten the way Mr. Burrows didn’t introduce himself to me, the way he studied me after I failed to hold Ms. Suntile’s magic. The way he looked at Mr. Hart with disrespect and impatience.
I wipe my palms on my jeans and try to stay calm.
“We understand that you tried to intervene during the tornado,” Mr. Burrows says. His short brown hair is parted down the side and kept in place with gel, and he wears thick black glasses that stand out against his fair skin. He’s middle-aged, and his chin is tilted up slightly, making it seem as if he’s talking down to me.
“I thought I could help,” I say. I look to Sang for reassurance, but he keeps his eyes on the desk between us.
Mr. Burrows nods. “That’s precisely the problem. You should have been able to.”
That’s not the answer I was expecting. “I’m sorry?”
“You should have been able to dissipate that tornado. We’re concerned that an Everwitch who has been training at a highly regarded school for solar magic was unable to stop an F2 tornado.” Mr. Burrows looks at me as though he’s annoyed.
“I tried—”
“I’d like to finish, Ms. Densmore. This is more an implication of your training than it is of you.”
Ms. Suntile shifts in her chair.
“The point is that you should have been able to prevent that tornado from forming. It never should have gotten to the farm. It never should have moved beyond campus. No one should have died from this.”
His words collide with my guilt, and I can’t breathe. No one should have died from this.
Mr. Hart should not have died from this.
“How do you know what I should be capable of?”
Mr. Burrows looks at me over the top of his glasses. “Because we trained Alice Hall.”
I jump at the sound of her name, and everything inside me stills. “Alice Hall, the last Everwitch?” I say the words slowly, carefully, as if they’re sacred.
“Of course.”
I’ve wanted to know more about Alice Hall since I first heard her name, since I first learned there was an Ever who lived before me. But Alice is an enigma, more legend than fact at this point. I wish that wasn’t the case. I don’t think I’d feel as alone if I knew more about her. “I don’t understand. She was alive in the late eighteen hundreds.”
“It’s true that a poor job was done of documenting her—your—kind of magic, which is regrettable. But her training was cataloged, and since we had the most contact with the last Ever, Ms. Suntile felt it made sense to involve us in your training going forward. And she’s right to do so; we know more about this solely because we’ve done it before.”
Anger flares inside me, heating my center and rising up my chest and neck. Even before Mr. Hart died, Ms. Suntile was going to replace him, pull him away from my training. My hands squeeze into fists, and I say a silent prayer to the Sun that he didn’t know. The room feels tight, as if it’s filled with something heavier than air. I stay silent.
“We will not be reporting your involvement with the tornado, nor will it go on your record. I will be replacing Mr. Hart as primary overseer of your education. If, at the end of the school year, I’m satisfied with the progress you’ve made, we’ll forget this ever happened.”
“I don’t want to forget this ever happened. Mr. Hart died because of me—I forced the tornado in his direction. It would have never hit the farm otherwise. You should report me.” My voice is pleading, begging him to turn me in.
Begging for someone to sentence me to a life without magic.
Please, forbid me from using it. Label me as a danger. Force me to get stripped.
I don’t want it. I’ve never wanted it.
I remind myself that all I have to do is make it to
