Just us. Just us and this island and our magic.
But I can’t enjoy it. An ache has settled deep in my belly, or maybe the ache is blooming from the excess magic that’s killing me.
I’m not sure.
Rocky beaches encircle the island, but dense woods and overgrown fields make up the interior—evergreens so tall they fade into the clouds, thousands of green giants watching over us. They sway in the breeze as if they have their own magic, and the thought makes me smile. If flowers and herbs, trees and fields, oceans and mountains aren’t magic, I don’t know what is.
The salty air feels good in my lungs. Healing. If I didn’t know better, I’d believe that if I just breathed in long enough, I’d be okay.
By the time I get to the western edge of the Witchery, I’m no longer worried about running into anyone. All of our shops and homes are on the eastern edge, leaving this side of the island wild. The founders of the new coven made the choice to build up the Witchery on the east coast—they thought we would be more motivated to maintain the new order of magic if we felt the mainlanders were always watching.
And even though the mainland is far enough away that details are impossible to see, it’s always there in the distance. Always reminding us of the power that lies on the other side of the Passage.
But the western side is free from mainlanders. Here the grass is long and the shrubs are dense. There are no manicured gardens or carefully placed cobblestones, no pastel doors or sparkling streetlamps.
Everything is wild.
The wind is getting stronger, and it blows my hair and nips at my skin. The sound of the waves rolling onto the shore follows me as I cut through the trees and toward the field where I met Wolfe. It makes sense to start here, but my footsteps slow as the reality of what I’m doing sets in.
Part of giving up dark magic meant relieving the mainland of the notion that we were powerful enough to change the course of things. If that sort of magic existed, there would always be someone who wanted to use it for their own gain. No one is meant to have that kind of power, so we got rid of it entirely.
Or rather, we thought we did. If what Wolfe Hawthorne said is true, there is still one coven left practicing it.
It hurts to imagine telling my mother what I’ve learned, that we’ve all been tricked into believing the old coven is present only in our history lessons and myths, that they live right here on this island, poisoning it with their magic. But that will come later.
Long blades of grass poke at my skin as I walk through the field where I first encountered Wolfe. I brush them out of the way and move toward the place where we collided, finding it easily enough—the grass is bent toward the earth where we fell, and the single white moonflower is still on the ground, wilted.
“You,” a voice behind me says.
I jump and turn around. Wolfe Hawthorne stands several feet away from me, an annoyed expression on his face, as if he owns this field and I am nothing but a trespasser.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I could ask the same of you.”
“I came back for the moonflower. If people knew it was on the island, there would be a lot of panic.”
“Understandably. They haven’t grown on the Witchery in decades.”
“Is that what they told you?” he asks, an edge creeping into his voice.
Coming here was a bad idea.
“I told you why I’m here. Now it’s your turn,” he says.
I pause, unsure whether I should answer or get far away from him. I know what I should do, but I want his help. I stay where I am and look at him. His jaw is sharp and his eyebrows are pinched together, and I wonder if he always has such an unpleasant expression or if it’s somehow related to me.
I swallow hard and force myself to meet his eyes. My heart beats wildly, but I don’t let him see how scared I am. “I need your help,” I finally say.
He cocks his head to the side. “My help?”
“Yes. If you are who you say you are.”
He laughs, but it sounds mean. “Implying I’m a liar while asking for my help is an interesting approach to take.”
I sigh. “Can you practice dark magic or not?”
“High magic,” he says.
“What?”
“Tell me, Mortana, what kind of magic do you practice?”
It takes me a moment to respond, unsure what he’s asking. “Low magic, of course.”
“Its full name.”
I exhale, frustrated. “Low tide magic. What does this have to do with anything?”
“Everything,” he says, bending to pick up the wilted moonflower. “And where do you think that name came from?”
“It’s named for the tides,” I say, impatience lacing my tone. “For the gentle nature of low tide.”
“And how do you think the new coven came up with that name?” He twirls the moonflower between his fingers, drawing out his point as if it’s molasses, unbearably slow.
“I don’t have time for this,” I say, my voice rising, too aware that every moment we spend talking is a moment we could be rushing my magic.
“Do you truly believe our ancestors referred to their own magic with the same disdain the new coven does? Obviously not. Before the new coven was formed, our magic was called high tide magic,” he says, his words sharp.
I stare at him, shocked. I don’t understand why I’ve never heard the term before now, and it pulls at another thread in my mind.
“For the powerful nature of high tide,” he adds, mocking my words from earlier. Anger flares inside me. “Don’t they teach you anything over there?”
“I—” I start to speak, wanting nothing more than to refute his words, but I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t taught that. Why wasn’t I taught that? I close my mouth, dropping my gaze to the ground.
“To answer your original question, yes, I can practice high magic.” His tone is smug and condescending, and it makes my stomach twist with ire. Still, if what he said is true, it’s a part of our history I should have known.
I shove the thought aside for now, taking a deep breath and working up the courage to ask for what I need. “I’m in trouble,” I finally say. “I missed the rush last night, and if I don’t get rid of the excess magic in my system, I’ll die from it.” I’m amazed that I manage to keep my tone even and strong, amazed I’m able to speak at all through the fear.
“Yikes.”
My jaw drops. “Yikes? Seriously?”
“Yeah. Yikes.” He brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks at me. I feel myself withering beneath his gaze, and I make a point of standing tall and rolling my shoulders back. I raise my chin and meet his eyes.
“You know, if you ‘new witches’ practiced high magic, this wouldn’t be an issue.” He practically spits the phrase new witches. Utter disgust.
“Well, we don’t, and it is. Will you help me do my own rush or not?”
Wolfe looks up and to the right, then rests his chin on his fingers as if what I’ve asked requires a tremendous amount of consideration. Then he drops his arm to his side and meets my gaze.
“No.”
My heart beats faster, and I struggle to maintain my composure. “No?”
“No,” he says with finality.
“And why not?” I demand. “It’s your fault I’m in this mess in the first place,” I say, my voice rising.
“My fault? You’re the one who ran into me.”
“You are infuriating.” The words come out in a growl. “You know, you actually have a chance to use your dark magic for something good.”
His eyes spark at that, and he stalks toward me until he’s standing so close I can feel his breath on my skin. I force myself to stay where I’m standing.
“You have no idea what I use my magic for.”
We stare at each other for several breaths, neither of us speaking. I didn’t notice last night, but his eyes are a marbled gray, the color of the sky as a storm approaches. “Please,” I finally say, the word nothing more than a whisper, so quiet he wouldn’t hear it if not for his nearness.
“No,” he says again, softer this time.
“Why?” My eyes sting with the threat of tears. The word is a plea, a prayer.