I’ve been at Eastern for ten years, and while our gardens are lovely, this is something else entirely.
The sound of humming startles me, and I quickly stand and step back toward the trees until I’m concealed in their shade. I stay perfectly still.
The humming gets louder, and I recognize Sang’s voice moments before I see him. He took a different way up, and he steps into the clearing many yards to my right. He walks toward the side opposite where I’m standing, and I instinctively take another step back.
I want to run to him and wrap my arms around his waist and kiss him beneath the branches of our tree, but something keeps me rooted in place. He walks in a way that tells me he knows this field, that it’s his.
Sang drops his messenger bag on a boulder and sits on the grass. He looks so perfect here, surrounded by flowers and grasses and trees, and it makes me feel guilty, knowing he’s being pulled from something he loves so much just because his magic flows on a current of calm. He’s amazing with weather; his magic rivals that of everyone I know. But this is where he’s at home, and it fills him up in a way that nothing else does.
I know I should say something, announce myself in some way, but curiosity keeps me from moving. He bends over and pushes his hands into the grass. Primroses rise up and bloom right in front of him. They cover the far edge of the clearing in delicate yellow petals that sit atop deep-green leaves.
Primroses grow from contentment, and I realize with a rush that this field was built entirely from Sang’s magic, planting his emotions in the dirt and watching them grow into wildflowers.
I think of all the trips he must have taken up here to cover the clearing so completely. His flowers range from love to loneliness, happiness to anger, desire to frustration. I’m overwhelmed looking at them, this map of Sang’s heart plotted before me like stars in the sky.
Heat rises up my neck, and I step back as noiselessly as possible. This place is undeniably his, every flower, every sigh, every color representing a hidden part of himself. I want so badly to know what prompted each flower—what he loves, what he’s mad about, what makes him happy and frustrated. I want to know it all.
But none of this is for me, and if I knew all the emotions that brought this field to life, I could never pull back from him. This meadow is Sang when he’s all alone, when he’s sure no one else is watching, and the beauty of it takes my breath away.
I shouldn’t be here anymore. Every motion he makes—the way he plants his feelings in the dirt like seeds, the way his eyes brighten with every new flower that blooms, the way he sighs when he looks out over the field—is too much.
It’s everything.
He stands and pulls a thermos, sketchpad, and plastic container from his bag, then slowly makes his way to the birch. He steps carefully over flowers and sits at the base of the tree. He leans back against it, takes a sip of what I’m sure is black tea, and closes his eyes. After several moments, he flips open his sketchbook, grabs a pencil from the container, and begins to draw. I wonder what species he’s illustrating today, what plant will come alive with the strokes of his hand.
As quietly as possible, I step farther into the woods and begin my descent. And when I’m sure Sang won’t hear me, I start to run. I run hard and fast, fighting against my aching muscles and burning chest, fighting against my own desires, my own frustrations, my own fears. I run down the trail and through the center of campus, all the way to my tiny cabin in the woods, the place that was supposed to prevent something like this from happening.
This feeling is entirely new to me. All I’ve ever known of romance is racing pulses and passionate nights, high highs and low lows, restlessness and impatience and anxiety. Everything I had with Paige.
Everything I’ve only ever had in summer.
And that’s when I’m hit with a new fear, one that’s completely separate from my magic. I’ll fall even harder for Sang come summer—that’s what the season has always been for me. But the first day of autumn sucks those feelings up and tosses them aside as if they’re leaves on the wind.
Gone.
The dread that moves through my body feels a lot like the dread of falling for him and not being able to do anything about it.
Even if I have my magic under control, even if it never goes after him, never hurts him, my feelings are something else entirely.
And come autumn, I’ll have no control at all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“People, shader and witch alike, will surprise you if you let them. Some surprises will be bad, but some…some will be brilliant.”
—A Season for Everything
A week later, I’m walking to the control field for my first test using my new magic. It’s a perfect spring day, bright sunshine drenching the field and the earth damp with recent rain. Color is everywhere, greens and blues and pinks and yellows. Winter has been all but forgotten.
Sang is waiting on the field when I get there, but Mr. Burrows and Ms. Suntile aren’t with him.
“Hi,” I say, dropping my bag and reaching for him. He takes my hand, but he’s tense and distracted. “What’s wrong?”
He kisses my knuckles and gives me an