“You were made for this,” he says.
And for a single second, I think maybe he’s right.
Winter
Chapter Twelve
“Women are discouraged from being direct and saying what we think. That’s why I love winter: it taught me to stand up for myself when the rest of the world was happy to walk over me.”
—A Season for Everything
There is a distinct bite in the air when I wake up. The steady flow of autumn magic has been replaced with the deliberate, aggressive pulse of winter. Even the magic itself is colder, a constant shiver running under my skin. I’ll be used to it by tomorrow, but today I’ll be unable to warm up.
I get out of bed and open the window. I stick my arm into the air and close my eyes, reading the temperature.
I dress appropriately, then head to class with Nox following after me. A thick, low layer of clouds hovers over the school. My breath appears in front of me with each exhale.
Winter is the most hated season by the nonwinter witches. The autumns, springs, and summers tend to stay inside and huddle around fires. They wear too many layers and drink copious amounts of cider and spiced tea.
But I like winter. Winter is the truest of the seasons. It’s what remains after everything else is stripped away. The leaves fall. The colors fade. The branches get brittle. And if you can love the earth, understand it when all the beauty is gone and see it for what it is, that’s magic.
Winters are more straightforward than anyone else. We don’t soften ourselves with indirectness or white lies or fake niceties. What you see is what you get.
And winter is good to those who respect it.
When I get to the control field, several people look my way. It’s my first group class since Mr. Hart died. Ms. Suntile thought it would be good for me to start working with other witches again, but I won’t be trying to hold their magic. My primary training will still be with Sang, learning to control my own magic. Ms. Suntile doesn’t want me to forget what it feels like to work in proximity to other witches, though, so here I am.
I put my bag down and stand at the edge of the group. The field is larger than the one Sang and I train on, forty acres of flat earth on which to practice our magic. The grass is green and short, kept immaculate by our springs. The far edge of the field is lined with trees, eastern hemlocks and bare oaks and soaring pines stretching all the way to the Poconos. When I was younger, the field felt impossibly large, and it was only as I got older that it started to feel suffocating instead.
Mr. Donovan gives me a welcoming smile, then walks several yards away from the group and demonstrates a near-perfect thunderstorm. Looming clouds. Flashing lightning. Clapping air.
It’s perfectly confined, maybe three hundred feet above his head and only ten feet or so in diameter.
Thunderstorms aren’t common in winter, so we aren’t as good with them. We have to fight for the level of precision Mr. Donovan demonstrates. He’s a spring, and thunderstorms come much more easily to him. He looks calm and focused, hands out in front of him, no sign of strain or stress.
It’s amazing to think about how something that will come so naturally to me next season will be a struggle today. But winter has its own set of skills, and once the temperature drops more, we’ll get to put them to use.
Mr. Donovan crosses his palms in front of him, then lowers his hands.
The storm vanishes.
We erupt in applause.
“I forgot how much I like teaching winter sessions. You’re much more impressed with me than the springs are,” Mr. Donovan says, and we laugh.
“I know thunderstorms don’t come as naturally to you, but after the tornado last season, Ms. Suntile wants everyone refreshed on the basics. Thunderstorms are most common in spring and summer, but they can happen at any time, and we want you prepared. You probably know more than you think; remember that every time you deal with hail, you’re dealing with a thunderstorm. We’re aiming for acceptable, not perfect, so don’t stress out over it. We’ll have two thunderstorm classes before moving on to winter magic. Got it?”
We all nod.
“Good. Paige and Clara, you’re partners. Then Thomas and Lee, and Jessica and Jay. Remember, you’re working together. You are not trying to overpower each other. The weather doesn’t tolerate egos, and neither do I, so let’s keep it friendly, okay? Now, spread out and get to work.”
I walk to the southeast corner of the field. Paige follows. Her eyes bore into my back, burning holes in my jacket.
I stop when we get far enough out and turn to face her.
“Let’s see what all those hours with the botanist have done,” she says, joining me so we’re standing no more than a foot apart.
It’s obvious why I fell in love with her. She is poised, confident, and self-assured. She’s brilliant, and she knows it. And she’s beautiful, even more so now that we’re in her season. Her eyes are clear and sharp, and her long hair is pulled back in a ponytail.
The look on Paige’s face when I broke up with her left a permanent scar on my heart. I hurt her, a tragic kind of hurt because I did it even though we loved each other, and it still echoes between us. Paige walked out of my room that day before I could articulate everything I had to say. I should have run after her and tried to explain. But I didn’t, because it was better that way.
But the look on her face, her always-composed face, broke something inside me that I don’t think has healed. Maybe it never will.
“What?” Paige asks, impatience lacing her tone. I
