The Nature of Witches

take a deep breath and risk another peek at the meadow. Sang is no longer looking around and instead sits in front of the flower cross-legged, watching it. He shakes his head. Then he carefully pushes his hands into the soil next to it, and a cardinal flower punches through the surface, long green stem rising toward the sun, vibrant red leaves spilling every which way. It’s so close to my spotted wintergreen that its leaves brush the white petals.

Cardinal flowers grow from frustration.

I lean back against the evergreen and close my eyes.

I’m relieved, so relieved that we have this secret way of communicating. Fully separate from one another, perfectly safe.

Sang is frustrated, and I almost laugh at how glad I am to know it.

Maybe it will be tortuous, communicating in this way. Maybe the whole meadow will soon be filled with cardinal flowers that do nothing to ease the hurt inside us.

And yet, the next morning, I run the same route, through campus and up the trail to this perfect meadow beyond the trees. I kneel beside the cardinal and touch the earth, a perfect purple coneflower rising to greet me. The deep-orange center is perched upon delicate purple petals that point to the ground, the perfect flower for apologies.

I look at the three flowers side by side. Other than yelling at him to leave the group session, it’s our only conversation since that day in Sang’s apartment.

I miss you.

I’m frustrated.

I’m sorry.

Over the next three weeks, we add to our conversation, wildflowers taking over the dirt surrounding our birch tree. Baby blue eyes to say I’m relieved, bull thistle to say he’s angry, blanketflowers to say I’m ashamed, Queen Anne’s lace to say he’s hurt, chicory to say I’m sad, more chicory because he’s sad, too, and so much spotted wintergreen, longing everywhere.

We go back and forth, planting our vulnerability and hurt and desire for the other to see. We’re honest with each other. We open ourselves up, each trusting the other to see us for who we are.

And we do.

We see each other. I think we always have.

A new flower punctuates the end of our conversation—a single iris to say he loves me.

Every emotion beautiful, every reaction valid, each flower stunning in its own way.

It doesn’t erase the hurt or pain or fear or longing. But it makes it more manageable, knowing we’re in it together.

I think deep down, he understands that this had to happen. He knows I could never keep him safe, and he’d make the same decision if our roles were reversed. And while I’m so mad at the Sun for cursing my magic the way she has, I can’t regret that she brought Sang to me.

The eclipse is in two days, and while I still let myself consider what it might be like to get stripped of magic and live a new life, I don’t know if I can go through with it. I used to be so sure, but this past year has complicated everything, and part of me mourns for the certainty I once had. Stay for the eclipse, get stripped, never let another person die from my magic.

Be with Sang, knowing he would be safe. If he still wanted me, that is.

I’d lose a lot, but I’d gain a lot too.

But now I think about all the witches who have died from depletion, risking their lives by stretching their magic in the off-season, something that is entirely natural for me. Something that feels right, like all my pieces fall into place when I’m pulling power from a season that’s fast asleep.

And I think about the shaders who are finally having conversations with us, who are finally accepting their roles in all this and looking for ways to reverse their course.

I could help bridge the gap, stabilize the atmosphere now while we work to heal it in the future.

It’s a messy, complicated choice that has a clear right answer. But I’m a messy, complicated human, and I’m selfish and tired and want more for myself than a life of longing and isolation.

I look down at the iris, and my eyes fill with tears. I know Sang would still love me if I weren’t a witch—I know it the same way I know that hot air rises and broccoli is a flower.

Next to the iris, I touch the earth and pour one more feeling into the soil. Wild bergamot rises up before me, a perfect lavender flower that grows from absolute adoration.

I adore you.

I watch as the pompom bloom sways in the breeze, completing the conversation until we return after the eclipse.

Then I run down the trail, leaving part of myself for Sang to find.

Chapter Thirty-Six

“It is not your job to protect the people who hurt you.”

—A Season for Everything

I’m rushing around my cabin, packing my bag for the evacuation today. The path of totality crosses directly over Eastern, so we’re heading a few hours away, where we can watch the partial eclipse and keep our connections to the sun.

Every witch has to evacuate the path, leaving it wide open to whatever the atmosphere has in store. It’s risky. But totality only lasts for a few minutes, then it’ll be safe for the witches to return. There’s no other option.

I’m about to zip my duffel when the dream elixir Sang gave me catches my eye. I’ve never used it because I don’t want it to run out, but I take off its small cap and smell the amber liquid every night before bed. It’s part of my routine now, and I wrap the vial in layers of tissue and tuck it in the folds of my sweatshirt, not wanting to go a night without it.

Nox is following me around like a shadow in the sun, sensing my imminent departure. I fill his food and water bowls and give him lots of scratches. He’s been with me through my worst, and I wonder if I’d be okay if it was just