I expect Sang to list off the reasons why I should trust her or explain the ways this power is good for all of us, but he doesn’t say anything like that. After thinking it over, he says, “Is there an autumn you do trust?”
“I trusted Mr. Hart.”
“Try focusing on him. The same magic that is in Ms. Suntile was in him too, so pretend you’re working with him.”
Ms. Suntile checks her watch. “I don’t have all day, Ms. Densmore. I do have a school to run.”
I walk back over to her. “I’m ready now. Please call up your magic,” I say.
I close my eyes and start again. I picture Mr. Hart and his patient demeanor, the way he never lost his temper or demanded more than I could give. The way he always met me where I was and never lost faith in me. The way he thought my changing with the seasons made me powerful instead of weak, extraordinary instead of volatile.
I slowly send my magic out, and this time, it grabs hold of Ms. Suntile’s. I pull and pull and pull. Ms. Suntile gets stiff and fights against me, every part of her resisting. But I keep pulling, going with the current.
When I have a solid stream of autumn magic, I send it into the earth beneath us and wrap it around the seeds of winter squashes. I gently tell the seeds to grow, drenching them in magic that makes them sprout through the ground.
The sprouts grow into vines, long and dense with large green leaves that cover the earth. The vines snake between us and wrap around our legs. The squashes grow and grow until they’re ripe for harvest. Even the early spring chill can’t contend with autumn magic.
I open my eyes and slowly break my hold on Ms. Suntile’s power. It flows back to her in a steady stream, then it’s gone.
Ms. Suntile is looking at the ground. She bends over and touches the leaves, runs her fingers over the variety of winter squashes that should be impossible to grow in spring. Her eyes glisten, and her hands shake.
“The reason you were disappointed with my performance during the wildfire training is because I’m not supposed to hold the magic of witches who are in their season. They’re already doing what they were born to do; why take their magic away from them and give it to me?”
I bend over and pull a small squash from the vine, then throw it to Sang. He catches it, his face full of wonder and adoration and awe, though I’m not sure if it’s for the squash or for me. Probably both.
I grab another squash and hand it to Mr. Burrows, who gapes at it, then one more for Ms. Suntile. She takes it in her hands with care.
“The witches who are waiting for their turn with the sun, whose magic is weak and ineffective because it isn’t the right season—that’s something I can help with.”
“Clara, do you understand what this means?” I bristle at the sound of my first name in her mouth. “All of the witches dying from depletion, the atypical weather we’ve been powerless to deal with…” Her voice trails off.
“I understand,” I say.
“We never could have predicted this kind of magic,” Mr. Burrows says, staring at the ripe squash, his voice quiet. Reverent. Ms. Suntile startles when he speaks, as if she forgot he was here. “How did you discover it?”
I think about fighting with Sang, throwing magic at each other and rolling around in the snow. How angry we were. How desperate we were. Heat rises to my cheeks, and I look down.
“We got in a fight,” Sang says simply, and I look at him. His eyes lock on mine, and there’s something in them that makes me curse the fact that we aren’t alone. I want to tackle him right here in this field among the winter squashes and feel his mouth on mine. From the way he looks at me, I know he’s thinking the same thing.
“A fight?” Ms. Suntile asks, interrupting our moment.
“We were mad at each other,” I say, keeping my eyes on Sang. “I tried to throw a storm cell at him, and when I reached for my magic, I somehow ended up with his.”
A shiver runs down my spine. I need Ms. Suntile and Mr. Burrows to leave.
“Incredible,” she says, going back to studying the squash in her hands.
“I’d like for you to demonstrate on me so I know how best to structure your training going forward,” Mr. Burrows says after we’ve been quiet for a while.
I walk toward him to get started, but then I stop. I don’t have to do this for him. I step back. “No, I don’t think I will. It isn’t necessary for you to experience it firsthand to make effective lesson plans. I appreciate that you know more about Evers than anyone else at this school, and I will follow your plans when it comes to my training, but I don’t owe you this.” I say the words as evenly as possible. I don’t sound angry or upset, and my heart beats in its normal rhythm.
It makes me feel as if my magic isn’t the only thing getting stronger.
Ms. Suntile raises her eyebrows but says nothing. If I didn’t know her better, I’d say she looks proud. Mr. Burrows starts to say something, but Ms. Suntile speaks over him. “That sounds fair to me.”
To his credit, he recovers quickly. “Maybe some other time,” he says. “Sang is a spring, so we’ll need to get you practicing with other seasons right away.” Mr. Burrows turns to Sang. “I want you to oversee as she begins training with other witches. There’s clearly something about working with you that has helped her reach her full potential.”
Ms. Suntile nods. Mr. Burrows isn’t wrong, but something in the way he says it feels as if he’s invalidating all the effort
