“I’d like that.”
When I open the front door, I jump back at the sight of a blossom on the doorstep. I frantically scan the lawn for the moonflower from last night, but there’s nothing. I bend over to pick up the flower, a single rose with a handwritten note attached.
I saw this rose in the garden this morning—the same color as your dress. Thank you for the dances.
—Landon
My heart stops racing, and I smile to myself and hold the rose close to my face, inhaling deeply.
“What’s that?” Dad asks, and I turn and hand him the flower. The same relieved expression I saw on Ivy’s face at the ball last night settles over my dad now as he reads the note.
“I wonder how he got it here,” I say, walking back into the house and filling a small vase with water. Dad cuts the stem before putting the rose in, and we leave the house together.
“He’s the governor’s son; I imagine he had plenty of options for how to get it here.”
Dad automatically takes the long route to the perfumery, walking along the beach so I can get my fix of the water. I scan the surface for flowers, but it’s a foggy morning, and I can see only a couple of yards past the shoreline.
The thick fog follows us as we turn onto Main Street and walk down the cobblestone road. The coffee shops, tea rooms, and bakeries are all bustling with morning crowds, but we open the perfumery later on Sundays. Especially in the winter, it’s nice to have some daylight to ourselves before work begins. Otherwise we’d lose all our magic hours to the shop.
I put the key in the door and turn on the lights. Dad follows and helps me get set up before heading back out.
“What are you up to today?” I ask.
“We’re low on lavender and sandalwood. I’m going to the fields, then the cottage to extract oil. I’ll be back later today to refill our stock.”
“Happy hunting,” I say, and Dad smiles before kissing me on the top of my head and leaving.
There’s a steady flow of customers throughout the day, and I’m surprised by how many of them ask me about Landon. Thankfully, my mother arrives an hour after opening and steps in, giving me a much-needed respite.
I watch in amazement as she answers smoothly, always with the perfect amount of mystery. She doesn’t trip over her words or look at the floor when she speaks. She knows the right thing to say in every situation and has no desire to run from the shop and dive into the sea.
On some days, it makes me feel like something’s wrong with me, this overwhelming frustration that I can’t do what my mother and Ivy seem to do with such ease. But today I’m thankful for it.
For her.
At six o’clock sharp, we lock the door and switch our sign to CLOSED. It’s a full moon tonight, and we have to get ready for the rush. The tourists make their way to the docks, catching the last boat out.
Only witches are allowed on the island when we drain our excess magic into the ocean.
The one problem with low magic is that it leaves a buildup of unused power in our bodies that we aren’t meant to carry. If it isn’t expelled, it can kill us. So roughly every twenty-nine days, on the full moon, we shut down the island and rush our leftover magic into the sea.
It is, ironically, the most powerful spell we do, and the only one that is allowed at night.
It’s a raw, forceful display of magic that would terrify the mainlanders if they saw it, and as such, it’s become something the coven is ashamed of, a taboo ritual they’d give anything not to have to participate in.
Which is why it isn’t talked about. We don’t mention the rush leading up to it, and we don’t talk about it for the following twenty-nine days.
I think that’s what bothers me most about it—we’re ruining our island and harming our sea creatures and killing our crops for a ritual the witches hate.
I’ve never said it aloud, but I look forward to the rush. I feel powerful when that kind of magic is flowing through me. I don’t feel ashamed or disgusted—I feel alive, connected to my magic in a way I can’t replicate in the shop. I only wish I could use all that power for something good instead of casting it into the sea, where it will continue its violent tear through the water.
“All set, Tana?” my mother asks.
I nod and grab my bag, following her out of the shop. The fog has cleared, and a light drizzle is tapping the island, making the cobblestones slick and the shrubs heavy. The moss that lines the rooftops somehow looks greener in the rain, and I inhale the perfect scent of petrichor.
The last ferry pulls away from the dock, and I watch as it gets farther from the Witchery. I can practically feel the island relax as the weight of hundreds of eager tourists sails away, settling into itself and taking a breath.
“I have a quick meeting with the council, so why don’t you head home and I’ll meet you there?”
“Sure. Is everything okay?” Their regularly scheduled meeting was last week, and it’s rare to have another so soon.
“Of course. I think there are some members who feel they deserve a briefing on the governor’s ball.”
“You mean on me,” I say, instantly regretting the words.
My mother stops in the street and lets the rain wash over us as she looks at me.
“It isn’t just about you, Tana. What you’re doing, it’s for all of us. It’s for our children and our children’s children. Don’t you think the council has a right to know that after generations of uncertainty and fear, it’s almost over? That the mainlanders will finally accept us and we will no longer have to worry that a single misstep could cost us our freedom? Our lives?”
I look down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I was only thinking of myself.”
My mother relaxes her stance and sighs. She puts her arm around me, and we begin walking again. “I know, baby. It doesn’t feel as tenuous to you because things have been stable for a while. But don’t forget that we are on this island because those who came before us were forced here to preserve their magic, and they were given none of the necessities or comforts they were used to on the mainland. Having permanent safety and freedom is something the generation before you, and certainly before me, could never have dreamed of.”
“I understand. I’m sorry,” I say, thinking of the woman in Ivy’s tea shop. Thinking of the fire.
Mom gives me a tight squeeze before letting her arm fall, but I feel unsettled. It isn’t Landon or the impending marriage that’s bothering me. It’s the urgency. Landon was nothing more than a spot in the distance not three months ago, and now he’s all my parents are talking about, and the council is meeting about him.
About me.
About us.
It makes me wonder if the fire was just an excuse to hasten the timeline, but guilt moves through me as soon as I think it.
“See you at midnight,” my mother says, referencing the time we meet to avoid uttering the phrase the rush.
Mom heads toward the village hall, and I walk along the shoreline toward home.
I slow my steps, going over my mother’s words. The council doesn’t want a recounting of the governor’s ball. They want to know exactly how long it will be before they can expect an engagement, an alliance between the witches and the mainlanders.
They want to know when they’ll be safe.
And if they want to know when they’ll be safe, it’s because they’re afraid.
I hum as I walk along the water’s edge, then abruptly stop.
Your weakness will ensure your doom.
Your doom.
Your doom.
seven
It’s midnight. The full moon is unobstructed in the black sky, its light glinting on the surface of the sea and casting the beach in a faint blue glow that makes it possible to see the witches around me.
There’s a large white pillar on the beach with a copper bowl sitting on top.
I pull a strand of hair from my head and place it in the bowl, then prick my finger and let a single drop of blood fall in after it. Smoke rises from the bowl, and the strand and blood vanish.