“How long can you remember?” says the witch in front of me.
I squeeze my hands together, a wisp of pale orange magic slipping from between them. I’ve danced around this topic in my previous responses, not quite sure how to handle it.
“It…depends,” I say now. “But my memory in no way affects my determination or my abilities,” I say.
“But it would,” she counters. “It would affect your ability. Spellcasting costs you your memories, correct?”
There it is, out in the open.
I tighten my jaw. “Yes, but—”
She flips through the papers in front of her before pulling one out and placing it on top of the others. “The medical records you released suggest that, and I quote, ‘It is believed that the patient’s memory loss is a magic-based disease with no known equivalent and no known cure. It appears to be a progressive disease. Prognosis: terminal.’”
The silence that follows her words is somehow very, very loud. I can hear my own breath leaving my lungs. More magic has slipped out of me, rising from my hands like a wisp of smoke.
“So,” she continues, “every bit of power you use chips away at your mind, am I correct?”
After a moment’s hesitation, I give her a halting nod.
“And with every use of your magic, your brain deteriorates.”
“It doesn’t deteriorate,” I protest, annoyed by that word. I lose memories, not functionality.
Now the witch’s expression softens, but it’s pity I see on her face. I hate that, more than anything else. I hate it so much, it’s hard to breathe.
“At Henbane Coven,” she says, “we don’t simply embrace all manner of disabilities—we hold those witches in particularly high regard.”
She’s not lying. There’s a reason some of the most powerful witches have been blind, and the first recorded witch in Europe to fly a broom—Hildegard Von Goethe—did so because she had limited mobility.
“But at Henbane Coven,” she continues, “you will be asked to rigorously perform magic. If your magic use is directly related to your memory loss, then being here will undoubtedly speed up your…condition. How can we, in good conscience, ask that of you?”
I swallow. It’s a fair question. It makes me feel panicked and desperate, but it’s fair all the same.
I glance down at my hands. I’ve had to think over this very thing so many times. Do I walk away from magic simply because using it will one day kill me?
I look up at the woman across from me. “I’ve had to live with my memory loss for the past three years,” I admit. “Ever since my powers Awoke. And yes, spellcasting eats my memories, and it can make my life very complicated.
“But I cannot live without magic. Surely you understand that,” I say, my gaze sweeping over all the witches sitting across from me. “And there’s so much more to me and my magic than my memory loss.” Like the fact I’m organized as hell. I’m so goddessdamned organized, it would make her head spin. “I would like the chance to show Henbane that side of me. I have a lot to offer.”
By the time I’m finished, my magic has swathed me in its soft sunset glow. I’m wearing all my emotions out in the open, and it’s making me feel uncomfortable and exposed.
The head witch stares at me for several seconds. Eventually, she taps the table, then stands. “Thank you for your time,” she says. Everything about her expression and posture looks solemn and guarded.
Fuck.
Today was supposed to be my day. I spent so many months working toward this. There is no backup plan, except to reapply again in another four months.
I mean to get up, but my ass is rooted to this chair.
“Selene?” the head witch says. “Thank you for your time.” Just the way she says it is supposed to be hint enough. She wants me to leave. The next interviewee might already be waiting out in the hall.
Emotion tightens my throat, and my hands are clasped so tightly, it hurts.
“I contest your rejection,” I say, staring up at the head witch.
She pauses a moment, then lets out an incredulous laugh. “You’re a soothsayer now? You peered into the future and saw your results?”
I didn’t need to, though her biting response is confirmation enough.
Before I can let it get to me, I straighten my spine. “I contest it,” I repeat.
She shakes her head. “That’s not how it works.”
Now I do stand, placing my palms on the desk. “I may not have the best memory, but I am persistent, and I can promise you one thing: I will keep applying and keep coming back here until you reconsider.”
It’s my toxic trait not to give up.
“If I may interrupt,” says one of the other women. It’s the witch with the wiry hair. “You might not remember me, but I am Constance Sternfallow.”
She flashes me a tight smile. “I think you are a fantastic candidate,” she says, “but your application is flawed in a couple of critical places. You need a better magic quest than the one you’ve submitted, and you need a familiar. I know it says that’s optional, but really, we do require it in most cases.”
Constance glances at the other women sitting at the table. One of them gives her a slight nod.
Returning her attention to me, Constance says, “If you can provide those two things—”
“Constance,” the head witch cautions.
“—then, Selene Bowers,” Constance continues, ignoring her, “you will be formally accepted to Henbane Coven.”
CHAPTER 2
All magic comes at a cost.
For sorcerers, it’s their conscience. For shape-shifters, it’s their physical form. For me, it’s my memory.
I’m a bit of an oddity among witches. For the vast majority of them, the spell components pay for their magic. And if it doesn’t, the rest comes from their ever-replenishing life force. And while my own power follows the same rules, it also takes a few memories while it’s at it.
It wasn’t always this way for me. I had a normal childhood—well, as normal as one can have when their mother’s a witch and their father’s a mage—but ever since I hit puberty and my magic Awoke, it’s been this way.
I step out of Morgana Hall, staring up at the cloudy sky, excitement and gut-churning anxiety twisting my insides.
I pull out my notebook and flip to the first blank page. As fast as I can, I scribble down the important bits:
August 29
Had the interview. A witch named Constance Sternfallow said you will be accepted if you can meet the following two requirements:
1. Go on a bomb-ass magic quest
2. Get a familiar
I try not to hurl as I stare down at what feel like two insurmountable demands. Magic quests are incredibly subjective; I’ll be at the whim of whoever reads my paper on the experience. And finding a familiar, a witch’s magical animal counterpart, is much harder than it seems on the surface.
I take a deep breath.
It’ll be fine. It’s always fine. I’m smart, and creative, and crafty as hell. I’ll manifest the shit out of this.
Shoving the notebook back into my bag, I glance at another dark Gothic building to my left. This is the coven’s residence hall for attending witches, and it’s where my best friend currently lives.