But none of those people can handle the force of it. Either they don’t have magic at all, like my parents, or their magic isn’t nearly strong enough to contend with it, like Nikki.
Either way, it kills them.
That’s why I can never get too close to anyone, can never develop emotions strong enough for my magic to sense.
Realizing you love someone is like noticing you have a sunburn—you don’t know exactly when it happened, just that you were too exposed for too long.
So I minimize my exposure.
To everyone.
When the farm comes into view, I slow my steps. Ms. Suntile is waiting next to Mr. Hart, along with a man I’ve never seen before. It takes all my energy not to turn around and go back the way I came. Ms. Suntile has been the head of school since I enrolled here twelve years ago, when I was five. The last thing I want is her watching over my training as if she can scare me into doing better.
Rows of green stalks stretch out before me, all the way to the woods that border the farm. The soil is soft and loose, and the sun drenches the wheat field to my right, making it look golden. Mountains rise in the distance, and for a moment I let the peacefulness wash over me.
I walk onto the field and drop my bag to the ground in between rows of celery. I take off my striped shawl and robe and place them on top of my bag. My pale skin is flushed, pink splotches running up my arms. My T-shirt is damp with sweat.
“Ms. Suntile wants to watch our lesson today,” Mr. Hart says. I can tell by his tone that he isn’t thrilled about it either. “Mr. Burrows is from the Western School of Solar Magic, and he’ll be watching as well.”
Mr. Burrows nods in my direction but doesn’t extend his hand or otherwise greet me.
“We were disappointed with your performance during the wildfire training.” Ms. Suntile looks at me like I’m a problem to be solved instead of a person. Her bun is so tight that it pulls at her dark-brown skin. Ribbons of gray weave through her black hair. Her eyes are tired, outlined with wrinkles, but they sparkle more today than they did in summer. She’s as thankful to be back in her season as the rest of the autumns.
“I did my best.”
“We both know that’s a lie, Ms. Densmore. If you had done your best, you would have been able to hold the summers’ magic and extinguish the fire yourself.”
“It didn’t feel right,” I start to explain, but Mr. Hart jumps in.
“Why don’t we start our training for today?” He gives me an apologetic look and motions me over to where he’s standing. “We’re going to work on getting more of your power out in a controlled environment so you can feel more comfortable—”
“No,” Ms. Suntile says, holding up her hand. “I want you to ripen the celery, using my magic, Mr. Hart’s, and your own.”
I look from Mr. Hart to Ms. Suntile. They’re both autumns, but I don’t know if I can do it. “I’ve never worked with anyone as experienced as you. I’ve only ever tried it with other students.”
“You aren’t being pushed enough, Ms. Densmore. This is the only way to learn.” Mr. Burrows nods along with her words, and it makes me inexplicably angry.
Mr. Hart clenches his jaw and looks away, as if he’s trying to decide if he wants to argue with Ms. Suntile in front of me. He chooses not to.
“Okay, Clara, you heard her. We’ll warn you before combining our power with yours. Do you have any questions?”
“No.”
I turn my back to them and get started. Bunches of celery line the soil in front of me, and if left alone, they would be ready to harvest in a month.
I’m relieved to be back in the calm that comes with autumn. Summer magic is big and bold, taking advantage of the heavy dose of sunlight. It feels like a flood, one I’m constantly worried I’ll drown in.
But in autumn, magic is slower. I send out a small pulse of energy, a test to make sure I know what the crop needs. That’s how it works in autumn: I ask a question, and the world answers.
Magic swells inside me, and I release it into the soil. It crawls through the dirt and picks up water as it goes, then wraps around the celery in tight circles. I do it over and over until the thread is full of the cool, calming weight of water.
I’m just about to release it to the crop when a heavy pulse of energy collides with my own.
“I’m not ready yet,” I say, trying to keep my focus.
“You won’t always be ready. You have to learn to work with the environment around you.” Ms. Suntile’s voice is sharp. “Autumn magic is transitional—use it to your advantage.”
“You can do this, Clara.” I calm at the sound of Mr. Hart’s voice and refocus my energy.
In one swift motion, I turn away from the water and focus on the sunlight, a quick change in magic that’s only possible in autumn. I punch through the fog and pull sunlight from the sky in controlled streaks that illuminate the stream until it’s glowing. This time I’m ready when Ms. Suntile sends her magic to me, but something’s off. Instead of trying to weave hers in with my own, it feels like she’s trying to wrap hers around mine and crush it.
It’s too heavy.
“Combine it with the water,” Ms. Suntile says. I steal
