“Clara, please,” Sang says, his face crumbling. “Please don’t do this.”
“You have been more to me than I ever could have imagined. I owe so much to you.”
“No,” Sang says. “Don’t you do this.” Tears spill from his eyes and run down his cheeks, and I force myself not to reach out and wipe them away. “I love you,” he says, his voice breaking. “I love you,” he repeats, this time in a whisper.
A sob escapes my lips, and I turn away from him and cover my mouth. I think I’ve known for a long time; I think maybe his love for me is what enabled me to love myself.
Then a thought—a selfish, dark thought—edges its way in, the total solar eclipse becoming vivid in my mind. I turn back around and meet his eyes, red and swollen and wet.
“Would you still love me if I weren’t a witch?” The words catch in my throat, so quiet and weak, barely a whisper. I can’t believe I’ve spoken them out loud.
Sang’s eyes widen. He watches me, and it’s clear he’s warring with himself, trying to figure out how to respond. But his silence is for the best.
I don’t want to know if his answer is no, and he would never tell me if his answer were yes. He thinks I’m too important.
“I—” he starts, but I cut him off. I put my hands on either side of his face and kiss him through my tears and his.
When I pull away, he looks defeated.
“I would rather die than cause you harm,” I say with so much finality I can practically see the wall forming between us, an impenetrable barrier that’s impossibly vast.
“Don’t I get a say in this? Don’t I get to decide if it’s worth the risk?” he asks through gritted teeth.
“No,” I say.
I look at him for several more seconds, then walk out the door.
As soon as I do, I know I will never, not for a single moment, forget the way his face collapsed and he stared into his willow bark with swollen, angry eyes.
I wonder if there will ever come a time when I can think of it without breaking.
But Sang has turned me into glass, so strong, yet with the tiniest crack that’s spread from every kiss.
Every touch.
Every look.
And when that crack comes under pressure, I will shatter every time.
Summer
Chapter Thirty-Four
“You weren’t born to be isolated.”
—A Season for Everything
The air is sweet, and the sky is bright. Summer rolls through campus on a wave of sunshine and heat and long days fading into short nights. The grass grows taller, flowers bloom brighter, and the sun sits higher in the cerulean sky.
The past two weeks have gone by in a blur of training with new witches and dreaming of lightning and trying to remember the cadence of Sang’s breathing when I can’t sleep. I get up in the mornings, go to classes, and solemnly nod at the other witches involved in the ring of fire as if we’re in on some sort of conspiracy together. Then I do it all again.
I let Mr. Burrows oversee my sessions, because the animosity I feel toward him is easier than the pain I feel with Sang. I train with other witches and convince myself it’s better this way. I take the long route to class so I can pass the greenhouse and make sure Sang is there, safe.
Safe from me, and safe from my magic.
The first time I see him feels like being crushed by a wave of longing, swept out to sea and gasping for air. Every part of me aches for him—my fingers and skin and mouth and hair, my veins and heart and lungs and bones. Summer overwhelms me, making the pain of losing him greater than it already was and the misery of wanting him stronger than before.
I don’t know if I can make it through three months of this.
I walk to the east garden, where my first group training session is taking place since the one in winter, when I struck Paige with lightning. I don’t feel ready for it. The ring of fire proved I haven’t mastered my magic the way I thought.
I let my guard down, and it resulted in injury that could easily have been death.
A group of springs is already at the edge of the garden when I get there, and even though it’s a bright, sunny day, I see the garden cast in darkness. The ghosts of Sang and me kissing, touching, holding each other send a chill down my spine.
I blink and refocus, setting my bag on the ground and waiting for Mr. Burrows to arrive. Mr. Donovan will be running the exercise, but Mr. Burrows will watch and judge.
“How are you feeling? Excited?” Mr. Donovan asks. He was elated when Mr. Burrows decided we’d use spring magic for my first group exercise. He’s been counting down the days.
“I’m nervous,” I say, answering honestly. “I just want to do a good job.”
“I’m sure you will,” he says. “Try not to put too much pressure on yourself, Clara. We’re only working with flowers—nobody’s life is on the line.”
He says it to be reassuring, but the ring of fire was a game too—a silly, no-stakes-attached game that went wrong. So horribly wrong.
I don’t feel any safer using my magic to grow daffodils than I do using it to stop a blizzard.
Still, I smile and shove my worries aside. I have to work with other witches if I want to realize the full extent of my power. I might as well start now.
Mr. Burrows arrives at the garden just as the bell rings, but Sang is with him, a jar of seeds in his hand. Every part of me tenses up. I want to run to him, touch him, hear his voice and
