“I’m no fool,” the woman says, her long gray ponytail swaying from side to side. “The problem isn’t the tea, it’s the magic. There is dark magic here, I can sense it.” She practically spits the words, and murmurs break out around the room. I’m shocked that she would be so bold. Dark magic hasn’t been on the island in years; it was all but eradicated with the new order.
Mrs. Eldon takes a step closer to the woman, her expression turning from patient to stern. “You are not to say those words in my shop. If you don’t like what we’re serving, you are free to leave, but I will not stand here and tolerate your disrespect.”
“All of you are being brainwashed. Each and every one,” the woman says, looking around the room. “You should be protesting the existence of this island, not putting silver in their pockets!”
“That’s enough,” Mrs. Eldon says. She walks to the front of the shop and holds open the door. “It’s time for you to go.”
“This place is an abomination. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.” The woman pushes past Ivy’s mother and out onto Main Street, leaving behind a heavy silence.
Mrs. Eldon takes a deep breath and closes the door, then turns to the other patrons. “I’m terribly sorry about that,” she says.
“For the record, I wish my tea was stronger,” says a man on the other side of the shop, and it’s enough to break the discomfort that had settled in the room.
People laugh, someone says, “Here, here!”, and then the rest of the customers raise their teacups in agreement, drinking to the idea of more magic, not less.
Mrs. Eldon smiles and walks back to the counter, but I see the way the confrontation weighs on her, the way her shoulders are drawn and her eyes are heavy with thought. Ivy and I haven’t seen many encounters like this—people come to the Witchery because they like magic. But our parents, and especially our grandparents, remember more frightening times when the majority of the mainland sought to get rid of magic altogether. They tell us the stories, remind us of how fortunate we are, but hearing it and seeing it are different things.
Ivy wraps an arm around her mother and whispers something in her ear. Mrs. Eldon nods, then excuses herself to the back room.
“Are you okay?” I ask, walking to where Ivy stands behind the counter, her eyes wet.
“I’m fine,” she says, wiping at her lashes. “These are angry tears. Seeing someone talk to my mom like that…” She trails off, unable to finish her sentence.
“I know,” I say, grabbing her hand. “Why come here if you hate magic?”
It’s easy to fall prey to the belief that the entire population of the mainland is like the regulars who visit the Witchery, but it isn’t true. How many people are on the mainland, looking across the Passage to our island, wanting it to go away? How many people still want the eradication of all magic? It’s scary, knowing that where there is one, there are others. And if those people got the ear of the governor, that would be terrifying.
I don’t believe there are many people who want us truly cut off from the mainland, who would be willing to burn our docks under the cover of darkness, but it’s becoming clear there are people who don’t want to live in a world where magic is accepted. Even magic ruled by the new order, gentle and mild, is too much for some. But in order to do away with magic, they would have to do away with us.
The memory of the moonflower surges back to me, and I swallow hard.
“What are you thinking about?” Ivy asks, taking a deep breath. Her eyes are dry, and any trace of her anger is gone.
I sigh, then down the rest of my tea in one gulp. “That I need to be flawless tonight.”
“Then you better go,” she says. “You’ve got a lot of hair.”
four
The night is clear. I spent the entire ferry ride looking for signs of a moonflower, but there was nothing. My legs feel weak as I walk up the shore of the mainland, and I jump when an automobile rumbles down the road. We don’t have them on the Witchery, and I take a breath, letting the rhythmic lap of the waves calm my racing heart. The governor’s mansion towers in front of me, lit up from bottom to top, and the band’s festive music floats out into the night.
Several people are leaning against the balcony rails on the second and third floors, fancy drinks in crystal glasses in their hands, silk dresses and loose updos blowing in the breeze. I hug my arms to my chest.
My pale pink dress is wrapped tightly around my ribs, making sure my lungs and heart stay put. The bodice gives way to flowing layers of sheer fabric that brush the tops of my satin shoes, and short cap sleeves cover my shoulders. I wanted to wear something gray, reminiscent of the way the fog looks in the early mornings on the Witchery, but my mother overruled me, insisting the pink was more appropriate.
My makeup is subtle and my long hair is curled, falling halfway down my spine.
My parents begin their walk up the large stone steps, and I follow behind them, tugging at my white evening gloves.
“You’re going to do great,” Ivy says, falling in step beside me.
“I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you for coming.”
Landon told me I was welcome to bring a friend if it would make me feel more comfortable, and I’m thankful for the gesture. Ivy is confident and sure of herself, effortlessly slipping into conversation with whomever she happens to be standing near. A daffodil-yellow dress hangs from her shoulders and stops short of the ground. Her lips are painted a soft pink, and three strands of pearls are wrapped around her neck.
I turn my head and take one more breath of cool, salty air before we step inside and breathe the hot air of hundreds of other bodies.
“I’m glad I’m here, too,” she says, “but if you dive into that water right now, I swear—”
“Relax, I’m just taking a breath.” I turn back to face her. “Shall we?”
She loops her arm through mine. “We shall.”
We walk through the open double doors, and the breath I took just moments ago drains from my lungs.
A large marble staircase rises from the center of the room and splits at the top, each side feeding a different wing of the house. A crystal chandelier catches the lights and shimmers overhead, casting rainbows around the room. Colorful flowers sit in dense arrangements on cocktail tables, and the walls are painted a soft mint green that’s as lively as the music.
Ornate woven rugs in bright colors with golden tassels lead us into the ballroom, where my parents have already disappeared into a sea of people. A string quartet is playing on a stage, and I immediately recognize them from the Witchery. No wonder everyone seems to be having the time of their lives—with each note the musicians play, they send waves of excitement and happiness into the room.
It makes me sad for a moment that the mainlanders think they need magic to ensure they have good time. But it’s the resentment I feel that startles me. Witches are forbidden from practicing any form of magic after the sun goes down, but the governor asked for an exception that my mother approved. She never would have approved it for anyone else.
And I can’t help but think what a waste it is to make an exception for this.
The stage backs up to the gardens, and I look longingly out the window.
“Don’t even think about it,” Ivy says. “You weren’t invited here so you could stand stoically in the garden.”
“But I’m so good at that.”
“I’m not disagreeing, but there will be plenty of time for that later. I’ll go get us some drinks before we make the rounds.”
Sometimes I think how much better things would be if Ivy could take my place. I’m a direct descendant of Harper Fairchild, the witch who formed our coven and created the boundaries of low magic. Because of that, my mother is the head of our coven, and forging a bond between the most powerful family of witches and the most powerful mainlanders is the strongest declaration we can make.
But Ivy’s family is one of the original families, and as I watch her glide around the room and see the eyes that follow her as she moves, I can’t help but feel this life would suit her very well.
Ivy hands me a drink and clinks her glass to mine. “To getting through the night.”