I think about how Sang’s magic is carried on an undercurrent of calm. Maybe mine is carried on an undercurrent of feeling.
My eyes burn, and my throat aches. I’ve been told countless times that I feel too much, that I’m too sensitive, too in my head. Having my feelings framed this way, as if they’re the source of all my power, all my magic, is one of the loveliest things I’ve ever encountered.
Even if it’s wrong, I’m thankful to have read it.
I keep reading, not caring that the world is getting darker and time is passing. I read page after page, reliving training sessions and taking in Mr. Hart’s stream-of-consciousness thoughts about controlling my magic.
I’m so moved by how much effort he put into this, by how much he wanted to help me and see me at peace. By how fully he believed I’m not meant to be isolated, how many times he went to bat for me with Ms. Suntile without me ever knowing.
How much he cared about me.
I decide here and now that I won’t let the Ever who comes after me feel so alone, won’t rely upon them finding their own Mr. Hart. Maybe I’ll write to them—a book or a collection of letters that can be passed down, something meant for them, not something they’ll have to work so hard to find. Anything to prevent them from feeling the loneliness and disconnect I’ve felt for the past seventeen years.
Even if I have to be alone for the rest of my life, I can hold on to the fact that what I write will someday find its way to the next Ever, an invisible tie I can take comfort in.
I’m getting toward the end of the logbook, the pages so full there’s hardly any blank space, writing crammed into the margins and along the edges. My eyes widen as I understand what Mr. Hart has been building to: that if my magic could be “reset” in some way, it would be able to seek out the people I care about without hurting them.
And he thinks the eclipse is the way to do it.
My heart races, reading his words. He believes I’m strong enough to survive the direct exposure, that an Everwitch’s magic is too powerful to be lost. He believes that when totality is over and my connection to the sun is restored, my magic will reset and find its balance.
I stare at his words, unable to comprehend the incredible risk he’s suggesting. If he’s wrong—if I go back for the eclipse and get stripped—I’d lose a magic we could never hope to get back. Not until another Everwitch is born.
The risk is immense, and yet I don’t fully dismiss it. It swirls in my mind like a hurricane above the ocean.
I shut the logbook and put it on my nightstand. I’ve been so lost in Mr. Hart’s writing that I haven’t noticed the sunlight reaching into the room or the birds chirping outside. I’ve missed breakfast. Paige’s bed is still made. It’s almost nine, and in two hours, the eclipse will be over. Mr. Hart’s theory will never be put to the test.
I want to try. I want to go to the eclipse. I want it to feel like enough, knowing that even if I were to get stripped, I could have companionship. I could be happy. But the risk is so great. Mr. Hart dedicated so much of himself to this, and in the end, it doesn’t matter, because I can’t bring myself to get out of bed and do what he has suggested.
You won’t even fight for the things you care about.
I jump when the door to my room flies open and Paige comes rushing in.
“Have you seen this?” she asks, turning on the television to a local news channel.
I sit up and rub my eyes, try to focus on the screen. It shows an enormous dark cloud hovering over a riverbank.
“Cloudburst?” I ask.
“It’s dumped twenty-one inches in the past hour,” she says.
The image switches to the riverbank, where hundreds of people huddle under tarps or stand in the middle of it all, laughing.
“It’s the second day of the Eclipse the Heat Music Festival,” she says. “The witches have already evacuated, and that river is rising at a dangerous pace. We’re about to see a massive flash flood.”
“Have they started evacuating the festival?”
“No,” Paige says. “There are thousands of people; the evacuation logistics are complicated. But when the river overflows, we’re looking at feet of water, not inches. In a crowd that size, if anyone trips or gets knocked over, they’ll likely drown. The force of it will be extreme. There’s no way they’ll all get out safely.”
I’m standing now, staring at the screen.
“We have to do something,” I say.
“Like what? The path of totality cuts across the riverbank at an angle—the entire festival is in its path. We can safely stand on the other side of the river a few hundred feet north, but we’ll be too far away to be effective. The storm cell is on the other side.”
I watch the screen. The band keeps playing, and hundreds of people dance in the rain to the beat of the music, drenched in water. It’s close to ninety degrees out; nobody minds the rain.
“Look at the current,” I say, pointing to the river. “It’s going to wipe out anyone who’s on the shore when it floods.”
“Exactly,” Paige says.
“They have to evacuate.”
“Ms. Suntile is on the phone with officials, but it would take hours to get that many people out. And we don’t
