Chapter Forty-One
“Our Earth is tired—let her rest.”
—A Season for Everything
Everything is burning, so many flames it looks as if we set the sky on fire. The sun looks hazy and distorted through all the heat that’s rising, a shimmery mass that reminds me of the sunbar Mr. Burrows created in winter.
Once again, witches have come to Eastern from all over the world to take part in our wildfire training. The control field is packed with bodies, sweating and dirty from all the heat and ash. Ms. Suntile stands off to the side with the other teachers, as well as officials from the Solar Magic Association and shaders from the National Center for Atmospheric Research.
It’s the first time shaders have come to one of our training sessions, a result of the conversations we’re starting to have. They’re listening to us, they’re asking questions, and they’re putting in the work to reverse some of the damage they’ve done.
We aren’t in this alone and shouldn’t act like we are; the atmosphere is hurting, and that’s a problem for all of us, witches and shaders alike. The challenge is great, and we have a lot of work ahead of us. But we’re in this together, and if there’s anything I’ve learned this past year, it’s that together is where the magic lies.
An enormous fire rises from the center of the field, smoke billowing high above us, reaching toward the sky. It’s our final day of training, and the summers, springs, and autumns have already had their turns.
Now, it’s time for winter.
I close my eyes and send my magic through the group, recognizing the bite of winter right away. It’s cool and sharp, sending a chill throughout my body. It feels so good in the summer heat.
My power weaves through them, dancing around the winters, inviting their magic out to play. I slowly raise my hands, and a few of them gasp as their magic gets stronger inside them, growing to its full intensity in the middle of summer.
I will never tire of this, of magnifying a sleeping season, of waking it up and coaxing it back to life.
Wake up, winter. There is fun to be had.
Winters can’t harness the sun or deal with the heat—that magic is reserved for summers. But they can sure as hell make it rain.
“Okay, winters, get to work,” Mr. Donovan says over a loudspeaker.
I keep my magic wrapped around them, an invisible magnet that lures their power to the surface, getting stronger and stronger with each passing second. I remain steady behind the group. Even. Calm.
I’m giving Sang a run for his money.
Winter magic dives into the ground in search of moisture, darting every which way, aggressive and quick. The winters work together, pulling water from the earth and combining it until a large, dark cloud hangs in the air above them.
Mr. Donovan instructs them as they work to put out the fire, and I smile when a single raindrop hits my forehead. Here we go.
The sky opens up and drenches us in seconds. Cheers rise up from the crowd—from the winters participating and the witches watching, from the officials at the SMA and the shaders from NCAR.
No matter how many times we do this, the feel of rain on our hot skin will always be a victory. We’re getting stronger, and each session is a reminder of that strength. We’re still in the game.
I tilt my head back and let the rain run down my face, wash the ash away, soothe the burning in my eyes from all the smoke. I wish Mr. Hart were here. I wish he knew that all the time, encouragement, and love he poured into me wasn’t a waste.
I think he did know. It was me who had to learn.
The last of the flames die out, the soot on the ground and the rising tendrils of smoke all that remains of the massive fire.
Mr. Donovan officially ends the training, and the control field empties as the witches disperse, going to the dining hall or to the dial to relax. Ms. Suntile calls me over and introduces me to the officials, and I shake hands and answer questions and explain my magic as best I can.
When they leave to continue their meeting in one of the conference rooms, I’m thankful to be excused. I turn around and see Sang waiting for me, and I rush over to him.
“Oh my Sun, feed me,” I whine. I take his hand, and we head toward the dining hall, not even bothering to shower first.
“You looked great out there,” he says, filling me with pride.
It’s a hazy day on campus, low clouds hovering above Eastern, playing hide-and-seek with the sun. It’s warm, and the flowers on campus brighten everything, a celebration of summer and all its colors.
I practically run toward the dining hall when it comes into view, the breakfast I had this morning long since forgotten. Paige walks out and hesitates when she sees us. We haven’t spoken much since the day of the cloudburst, since our fight. But the way she looks at me from across the control field and during classes makes me think we’re healing.
“I know you just finished, but would you like to join us?” I ask.
“No,” she says flatly, and I almost laugh.
She turns to walk away, then pauses. “What you did was extraordinary, taking a risk like that. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“I don’t think I could have done it without you,” I say, remembering her voice in our hotel room.
Go.
“Probably not,” Paige agrees. “You’ve always been an overthinker.” Her eyes move between Sang and me, and her expression changes, but I’m not sure what it means. She looks almost vulnerable. Then it passes, and she walks away.
“She’s maybe the most winter winter I’ve ever met,” Sang says when she’s gone.
“I know. I like that about her.”
“Me too.”
We walk into the dining hall, and when I’ve piled my tray with as
