We aren’t strong enough anymore, and the administration is relying on me to make a difference, to make the difference.
But they really shouldn’t.
By the time graduation comes, I won’t be able to make any difference at all.
Chapter Two
“Just remember: the choices you make today will be felt by who you have yet to become.”
—A Season for Everything
I stay in the field for a long time. The ground is covered in ash, with scattered embers sending trails of smoke toward the clouds. It’s hard to believe our Summer Ball was just three nights ago, a thin tent set up in this very field to honor the end of the season.
The sun has dipped below the horizon, and everything is quiet.
These are the last moments of summer. The equinox is tonight, and witches will flood the gardens to welcome autumn’s arrival. The summers will mourn the end of their season, and the autumns will celebrate.
I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see Mr. Hart walking over the charred remains of the field. The springs will be out here in full force tomorrow, and the grass will grow back in a matter of days. In a week, there will be no traces of the wildfire left.
Mr. Hart sets down a blanket and sits on top, watching the plumes of smoke with me. After several minutes he says, “What happened out there today?”
“I’m not strong enough.” I don’t look at him.
“It isn’t a matter of strength, Clara. For as long as I’ve been in charge of your education, you’ve held yourself back.” I open my mouth to object, but he holds his hand up, silencing me. “I’ve been doing this a long time. Most of my students have to fight to get their magic out. I know what that looks like. But you’re constantly fighting against it, trying to keep it in. Why?”
I stare at the barren field in front of me.
“You know why,” I whisper. He wasn’t here when my best friend died, when my magic sought her out and killed her in one instant, one single breath. But he’s heard the stories. And yet, he has never shied away from me. When he was brought in to take over my education, he never worried that he might share Nikki’s fate.
He moved toward me when everyone else moved away.
“There’s too much of it,” I say. “I’m not in control.”
“And you’ll never be in control if you don’t let me teach you. Do you really want to live in fear of who you are for the rest of your life? Control doesn’t come from avoiding the power you have, Clara; it comes from mastering it. Imagine the good you could do if you were to dedicate yourself to that.”
“How can I dedicate myself to something that has taken so much from me?” I ask.
Mr. Hart keeps his eyes straight ahead. He shoves his wire-framed glasses up his nose, and moonlight reflects off his frizzy white hair.
“At some point, you have to stop punishing yourself for the things you can’t change. Learning to use your magic does not mean you accept the loss it has caused. You have to stop equating the two.”
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not. It’s probably the hardest thing you’ll ever do.”
Tears burn my eyes, and I look down. I’ve never cried in front of Mr. Hart, and I don’t want to start now.
“Then why do it?”
“Because you deserve some peace.”
But he’s wrong. I don’t deserve peace.
I know Mr. Hart is getting pressure from the administration. But he never pushes me to go further than I’m comfortable with. He meets me where I am. But I should be the most powerful witch alive by now, and the school is starting to lose patience, with him and me.
“Besides, aren’t you tired?”
“Tired?” I ask.
“It takes a lot of energy to fight your magic, so much more than it would take to use it.”
“Can’t you just tell everyone my magic doesn’t work?”
“No one would buy that. It’s there, Clara, whether you want it to be or not. We need you.”
I’m silent. The school pushes me as if I’m the answer, as if I can single-handedly restore stability in the atmosphere. But if that were true, if I were supposed to use all the power within me, it would never target the people I love. It wouldn’t come with a death sentence.
It has taken so much, too much, and I hate my magic because of it.
“Look at me.” Mr. Hart faces me, and I meet his eyes. “What did I tell you when we started working together?”
“You’ll never lie to me. You’ll tell it like it is.”
He nods. “This is how it is.”
We’re quiet for a long time. Darkness has all but enveloped the field, and stars shine brightly overhead. A breeze picks up in the distance, blowing the remaining smoke out toward the trees.
“Yes, I’m tired,” I finally say, my voice nothing more than a whisper. “I’m so tired.”
For the first time, Mr. Hart sees me cry.
***
It’s late by the time I get to my small cabin in the woods. Its shingles are weathered and old, but the two small windows are clear as crystal. They’re the only way light gets into the small space, and I clean them almost obsessively. The cabin was built for the groundskeeper fifty years ago, but he married and moved off campus, and it sat empty for years.
Until I moved in. I dusted the cobwebs from the cracked white ceiling and scrubbed the walls until the dust was gone and the warm wooden planks were bright. But no matter how much I clean, I’ve never been able to get rid of the musty smell. I’m used to it by now.
Sometimes I wonder
