Long enough to reaffirm over and over and over again that this is the life I want.
Suddenly, a shock runs through me, powerful and familiar. It’s a rush of gratitude, aggression, hopefulness, and passion—transition, ice, growth, and heat. Autumn, winter, spring, and summer.
My eyes stop burning, and my body fills with the magic of the sun.
Our connection is back.
I laugh, fall to my knees next to the river, and thank the Sun for coming back to me. I put my palms in the grass, feel the individual blades and damp earth and tiny rocks from the riverbed.
It’s so recognizable, the magic I’ve had my entire life. And yet there’s something different about it now, about the way it settles inside me, perfectly nestled in my core as if the space was made precisely for it. It’s comfortable and calm, the way Nox is when he’s curled into the tightest of balls, wholly content.
And that’s when I know Mr. Hart was right. The eclipse offered a kind of reset, and my magic came back to me, totally under my control. It’s powerful and fierce, strong enough to help the atmosphere heal, and it’s mine. It listens to me, and I listen to it.
I look across the river, desperate to see Sang, but he isn’t there. Most of the witches are gone, but Paige still stands on the other side, watching me.
I wish we were close enough to talk, to hear each other’s voices, but the river is too wide and too loud. She points upstream, and I turn to look.
Sang is running toward me, so far away I can barely make out his features, but I know it’s him. I look back to Paige, and she motions for me to go.
So I do.
I run toward him, run toward the person who has seen me in every season and loved me all the same. Run toward the person who has helped me see myself. Run toward what I want.
I’m getting close, so close, and I force my legs to go as fast as they can.
He’s finally here, and I don’t stop when I reach him. I run into him, his arms wrapping around my waist as I cling to his neck, and he picks me up and squeezes me tight.
I wrap my legs around his waist, not caring that my clothes are drenched, that my hair is a total mess, that there’s dirt all over my skin. We cling to each other, tears streaming down my face, and I don’t care if he sees.
“I love you, witch or not,” he whispers into my hair, and I cry harder, because I know he does, because he has never once given me a reason to doubt it, not in any season.
We turn slowly, holding each other beneath the partially eclipsed sun, and when I’ve clung to him as tightly as I can, let him know he’s all I wanted to see, I slowly release my grip, and he sets me on the ground.
Then we look at each other for the first time.
He stares at me as if he’s never seen me before, uncertainty and awe etched on his face.
“Clara?” he asks, his thumbs gently tracing the skin around my eyes. “Can you see me okay?”
“I see you perfectly,” I say. “Why?”
“Your eyes. They’re different.” He grabs his phone and takes a picture, holding it out for me to see.
I look at the screen. My eyes are no longer the deep blue of the ocean. They’re bright, a marbled gold that’s almost illuminated, like a star has taken up residence in my irises.
I breathe out, unable to stop looking at the photo.
Sang tips my chin up and studies me, that same intense stare that’s made me wild since we first met. “You feel okay? You aren’t hurt?”
“I feel amazing,” I whisper.
I close my eyes and summon a small bit of magic, just enough to form a breeze and send it dancing around him. He laughs, shaking his head in disbelief.
“You weren’t stripped,” he says, still searching my eyes, his hands on either side of my face.
“I wasn’t stripped.”
“How is that possible?” His voice is quiet and reverent, waking up every trace of longing I’ve tried to bury since summer began.
“If you kiss me right now,” I say, keeping my eyes on his, “I promise I’ll explain later.”
His eyes move down to my mouth. “Deal,” he says.
His lips meet mine, and I kiss him without hesitation or fear or worry. He weaves his hands through my hair, and his breaths are heavy, matching my own. I open my mouth and tangle my tongue with his, kiss him deeply, kiss him with greed and desire and longing.
He pulls me into him, closer still, wrapping his arms around my ribs, igniting every inch of me as if he is fire and I am wood.
We share breaths and kisses and touches next to the river our magic met across not thirty minutes ago. Music drifts toward us from the festival, the world continuing on as if something extraordinary didn’t just happen.
I spot someone running toward us out of the corner of my eye and give Sang one more kiss before reluctantly pulling away. “If Mr. Burrows weren’t right over there, I’d be pulling you someplace a little more private.”
Sang groans. “That man has been the cause of a lot of torment this year.”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
Mr. Burrows reaches us, and Ms. Suntile is right behind him. I’m shocked when I look up the riverbank and see the rest of my class in the distance.
“Are they all coming to see me?” I ask, my voice unsteady.
“Yes,” Ms. Suntile answers. “What you did—” But she cuts herself off. “My Sun, what happened to your eyes?”
I had already forgotten about them, and I look down. “I don’t know. It must have happened during the eclipse.”
“Are you hurt?” she asks.
“More importantly, were you stripped?” Mr. Burrows interjects.
“No,”
