“We’re doing everything we can to ensure that won’t happen. You’ll be in a controlled environment with someone you don’t have any connection to; your magic won’t gravitate toward him at all. Nobody will get hurt.”
Flashes of light fill my mind. It was the same both times. Only the screams were different.
I feel like the walls of this office are closing in on me, threatening to crush me at any moment. I need some air, some distance from all this. Everything is spinning. I stand and grab my crutches.
I pause at the door. “I’ll do everything I can to strengthen my magic, and I’ll work harder than I ever have. But if it doesn’t work, I’ll get myself stripped before I let another person die because of me.”
Ms. Suntile’s eyes widen, and Mr. Burrows opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.
“I swear it.”
Chapter Nine
“Words are power. Use them.”
—A Season for Everything
I swear it.
The words spilled from my mouth before I had time to consider their weight. I’ve shown them my hand, the one thing I always kept to myself. Most witches consider being stripped a fate worse than death.
It was one thing when I told only myself that I’d do it, that I’d run toward the solar eclipse while everyone else ran away. But now the administration knows, too, and the secret I’ve kept hidden for so long is out in the open.
Being stripped of one’s magic leaves a constant physical ache in every inch of the body. At least, that’s what they say. And even though the pain dulls over time, you become a walking memory, an echo of the power you once had—power you’re still drawn to but cannot access no matter how hard you try. You spend the rest of your life longing for something you can never get back.
But I already live that way, longing for things I can never get back. I’ve been waiting for the solar eclipse for years, counting down the days until I’m free. I’m not afraid of being stripped. I don’t think it will feel like pain.
I think it will feel like relief.
It’s been almost a month since the tornado, and I’m still committed to the words I spoke.
My ankle has finally healed enough for me to start training again. Ms. Suntile has been hovering like an anxious parent, impatient for me to be rid of my crutches so I can start working with Sang. I’ve been going to all my regular classes, but I haven’t done any hands-on magic since the storm.
I sit on the edge of my bed and hold the unopened gift from Mr. Hart. My fingers trace the brown paper, and I hug it to my chest. Today is my first session with Sang, but I’d give anything to be meeting with Mr. Hart instead.
I take in a breath and tear the paper off. It falls to the floor, and Nox bats at it.
Inside is a bound book with the title The Unpublished Memoir of Alice Hall. My breath catches. I open the front cover, and a note from Mr. Hart falls out.
Dear Clara,
It took me years to get this. The Hall family is famously private and has never shared the manuscript with anyone. They were kind enough to meet with me on my last trip to California, and when I told them I was training you, they agreed to let me make a copy of the manuscript. I had it bound and printed by a local press, but other than the handwritten copy the Hall family has, this is the only version in existence. One of the conditions under which they let me have this is that only you can see it; I haven’t even read it myself. I hope it gives you some comfort, knowing you aren’t alone.
With admiration,
Mr. Hart
I’ve known that Alice Hall wrote a memoir ever since one of her distant relatives went to publishers, trying to get bids on it. The attempt to publish it was ultimately unsuccessful, as the rest of the Hall family stepped in, but it’s been public knowledge since then. I knew Mr. Hart had tried to get them to share a copy with me, and I can’t believe he finally succeeded.
My eyes burn with tears, and I hug the book close to my body.
All he wanted was for me to love my magic, to give myself over to it, and my chest tightens with the knowledge that I’m disappointing him. But I hate my magic more now than ever before. If the eclipse were tomorrow, I’d stand beneath it without a second thought and let it drain me of my magic until every last drop was gone.
Nothing left.
Nox jumps up on my bed, and I scratch his head as I flip to the first page of Alice’s memoir. She weaves together words that could have been taken straight from my own heart, and I’m caught completely off guard. It’s like reading a transcript of my thoughts, and it makes me feel exposed. Vulnerable.
Being an Ever feels like my body is made of heavy gears instead of organs. Each change in season makes the gears grind and move, winding my insides tighter and tighter. By the time the gears settle in their new positions and relief floods me, the season changes again, and I change with it. I ache for consistency and routine. Normalcy and quiet.
I ache to be understood.
My entire life, I’ve been asked why I change so much, and it has created a certainty within me that something went very wrong when I was born. That certainty has become a permanent pang in the pit of my stomach that I cannot soothe. I’d give anything to feel whole and normal and right, just for a single day.
Alice thrived. Eventually. She dedicated her life to her magic and loved it deeply. She felt powerful and truly herself when
