But it’s too late. I’m already there.
“He’s right,” Paige says, removing all teasing from her voice. “It was just a game that got out of hand. That’s all.”
“You saw how it passed right by you,” I say. “It chose him.”
“Well, you know what they say: lightning never strikes the same place twice.” She pauses, letting her horrible joke hang in the air between us. Then her mouth quirks up again, and I can’t help but laugh.
Sang laughs, too, pulling me into his side and planting a kiss on the top of my head. But dread moves through me and sits heavy in my gut.
I thought I had gained control over my magic, thought I’d finally mastered it. Thought it was no longer a threat to the people I care about.
But I was wrong.
If I don’t separate myself from Sang, keep my magic far away from him, he will always be at risk.
The realization breaks my heart in two, but it’s the only way.
I wrap my arm around Sang and get him home. I tend to his burns and tuck him in with perfect tucker-inner technique. I kiss him softly in the darkness and watch as he drifts into a heavy sleep.
And as his breaths come and go, the only sound interrupting my thoughts, I plan out the words I’ll say in the morning, when I’ll end the best thing I’ve ever had.
My heart aches, knowing it’s something I’ll never heal from.
And for the very first time, I hope that when autumn comes, it makes my feelings vanish. Gone, as if they were never here at all.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“The pain of love is almost directly inverse to the joy of it.”
—A Season for Everything
I wake up to early morning light filtering in through thin curtains. Birds chirp outside the window, and Sang breathes softly in his bed, fast asleep. I tried to stay up all night, to make sure Sang was okay, but I crawled into bed next to him sometime after three. I didn’t even bother to change out of my dress.
His back is pressed up against my torso, my arm wrapped around him, clutching him as if he’s the most precious thing in the world. The night before floods into my mind, images of dancing with Sang while he whispered in my ear, kissing in the gardens, playing the ring of fire, being so incredibly happy. Then lightning. I ache with the memory of it, with how quickly the night turned.
I was so sure I’d mastered my magic, so sure it was within my control. Even now, I don’t know where I went wrong. I was able to use more magic than I ever had to stop a blizzard, and Sang was safe, but a stupid game with zero stakes turned into a nightmare. I don’t understand.
Maybe I’ve approached my magic all wrong; maybe I’ll never have total control over it. Maybe it will always be a risk to the people I care about most.
Suddenly, I’m angry that I’ve devoted so much time to training, given so much of myself to the process. And now I’m stuck. Before I knew I could pull off-season magic, the eclipse was always my answer: get stripped, stop hurting people.
But it’s so complicated now.
If I don’t get stripped, my magic will save countless witches from depletion, but Sang and anyone else unlucky enough to be cared about by me is at risk.
If I do get stripped, witches will continue to die needlessly, but I could have relationships. I wouldn’t have to be alone.
It makes me want to scream in frustration.
I know I need to get up. Start the day. Talk with Sang. But the thought of removing my arm from his body, of creating a space between us that will never be closed again, threatens to undo me. It makes everything hurt, my heart and stomach and head and throat. So I stay. For another hour, I keep my arm draped over him, my forehead nestled into his back, and I memorize the rhythm of his breathing. I match my breaths to his, count the seconds between inhales, so that even when I’m alone in my cabin, I can breathe with him.
In, out. In, out.
Sang stirs beside me, and I quietly slide off the bed. It’s the first time I’ve been in his apartment, and it’s so perfectly him that it’s hard to look at. I didn’t see any details last night, when it was dark and I was solely focused on Sang.
But now it’s bathed in golden light, and I see him everywhere. There are dozens of houseplants hanging from the ceiling and covering most of the horizontal surfaces. Species I recognize and species I don’t. There’s an old wooden desk covered with half-completed paintings and drawings, watercolor staining the wood, and dirty water with brushes in it.
There’s a framed picture of him with a little boy, whom I assume is his nephew. Another framed photo from his graduation, his parents on either side of him, proud smiles on their faces. It stings, knowing I’ll never meet them. Knowing I expected that one day, I would.
I walk into the kitchen and put the kettle on, but when I look for tea, I’m met with an entire cupboard of loose-leaf varieties I have no idea how to prepare. Jars and jars of Assams and Darjeelings and oolongs, teas I’ve never heard of before. I don’t think I’ve ever had tea that didn’t come in a bag, and if this were a normal morning, I’d ask Sang what the differences are and watch as he prepared some. I feel as if I’m already missing out on all these things that could have been.
There’s a jar of ground willow bark on the first shelf, and I grab it and dump some in water to simmer on the stove. Willow bark is a natural pain reliever, and
