But it’s a fitful sleep.
Chapter Twenty-One
“You are more than your magic. Spend time with people who know that so they can remind you of it when you forget.”
—A Season for Everything
Weeks pass. Mr. Burrows keeps his job because I’ve gotten “so much stronger under his guidance” and “he was close by for the whole test.”
The bruise on my hand heals.
There is snow on the ground.
There’s frost on the trees.
The temperature drops below freezing and stays there, as if guarding against another heat wave.
My training goes back to normal, and Mr. Burrows still makes the lesson plans. I hate knowing he has sway over what I do, but the silver lining is the weekly updates Sang gives me on the state of his bruised face.
Ever since getting back to campus, I’ve plateaued. Sang hasn’t mentioned it, but I’m sure he’s noticed. It would be impossible not to. I’m worried the heat wave had some kind of permanent impact on my magic, but I can’t figure out how that could’ve happened. It scares me.
Witches continue to die. Pennsylvania isn’t the only place in the world experiencing atypical weather, and witches in their off-seasons keep stepping up to help. They die of depletion while the witches whose season it is stand by helplessly.
And it will get worse. The fewer witches we have controlling the atmosphere, the more erratic the weather will become. It’s one thing for heat waves and hailstorms to occur during seasons whose witches can’t help, but what happens when it’s hurricanes and famines and droughts? If the atmosphere devolves into chaos, civilization will follow.
Maybe that’s why I’ve plateaued—I’ve seen firsthand the effects of unseasonal weather, and I can’t do anything about it. The fact that I can supposedly combine the power of dozens of witches into one intense stream of magic doesn’t mean anything in this evolving atmosphere. Right now, I’m a winter witch, but what good is a powerful thread of winter magic when the only way to address a heat wave in February is with the magic of summer? And I can’t help with that.
Maybe that’s why Sang hasn’t said anything about my lack of progress. Maybe that’s why the administration has gone easy on me—because they know my power wouldn’t do any good.
A year ago, that would have been an incredible relief. But now it fills me with dread.
I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. Tonight is one of my favorite nights of the year, and I want to enjoy it.
It’s our Celebration of Light, and while I love all the season-end celebrations at Eastern, this one is my favorite. Ms. Suntile even let me join the rest of the winters to prepare, and we spent the past week constructing a massive ice dome for the occasion.
It’s sitting in the middle of the control field, a place where I have experienced so much failure and disappointment and fear. And recently, a place where I have experienced success and contentment and pride. I wish I could get those successes back somehow.
The ice keeps most of the sound from drifting out, a low murmur of voices and music all I can hear. The night is clear, and the sky is black. A waxing moon provides enough light to cast the dome in a blue glow, and stars poke through the darkness like needles through fabric, sharp and bright.
But the amazing thing is that because the dome is thin as glass, the stars are visible from inside as well. I walk in and look up, and sure enough, they’re on full display, along with the moon. It takes a lot of magic to make ice that clear, and I’m amazed by the effect.
A large chandelier hangs in the center of the dome with hundreds of crystals carved from ice. Small birch trees line the perimeter, their branches bare and covered in frost that sparkles in the light. A dance floor sits in the middle of the dome, and it feels as if we’re in a snow globe.
At first, I thought we were going overboard, trying to compensate for the week we lost to the heat, but seeing it now, I don’t think that anymore.
I think it’s perfect.
Sang did the floral arrangements in shades of deep purple and white. The room is dim, and a live quartet plays instrumental pieces. All the winters wear shades of crimson, and the rest of the witches wear anything but.
That’s something I like about Eastern: when it’s your season, you get the spotlight. The different seasons may not always understand one another, but they certainly respect everyone’s turn with the sun.
I walk to the bar and get a sparkling cider, careful to hold up the bottom of my long velvet dress so it doesn’t drag on the floor. I find an empty table and sit down.
Sang is standing on the opposite side of the room, tending to some flower arrangements. He’s in a black tux, bent over an orchid, turning the vase and then taking a step back to evaluate his work. His fingers hover over the deep-purple petals, and for some reason, the image takes my breath away. If I could choose ten things to keep sharp in my memory for the rest of my life, I think maybe this would be one of them.
Someone sits down next to me, but I barely register it. I want to love something, anything, as much as Sang loves his flowers.
“Careful, or you’ll burn a hole in his back.” Paige is sitting next to me, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s looking at Sang.
I instantly avert my eyes and look at the tablecloth instead. I don’t say anything.
“He’s had an effect on you,” she says.
“Who?” I ask, not wanting to acknowledge her words, but it sounds stupid. I obviously know who she’s talking about. She knows it, too, and rolls her eyes.
“You’re calmer. More self-assured.” Page twirls the straw in her drink and finally looks
