“Okay,” I drawl, having no idea where she’s going with this. Technically, she’s already taught me this, just without the visual display in tableware. “I’m assuming the closer they are to the cutlery means they’ll most likely have control over multiple elements?”
“You are correct,” she affirms with a smile, pleased that I understand.
“And where am I in all this?” I prompt, trying not to be nervous about whatever she has to tell me, and wondering if it has anything to do with her afternoon in Portland.
My aunt picks up another sugar cube from the bowl and holds it dramatically over the cup before dropping it into the tea. “The source of all magic flows through you.”
“Right,” I chirp, my fingers digging into my calves. “But if I’m one with the tea or whatever, then why do I keep passing out when I cast more, er, powerful spells?”
She crosses one arm over her chest, while her other curled hand hovers in front of her mouth. “This is pure speculation, but my guess is you’re… how do I word this?” She trails off, her gaze distant as she gathers her thoughts. When she continues, her words are slow, like she’s plucking each one only after the prior one is spoken. “As I’ve explained, every creature has some innate magic that lives within them—their spirit. Since the source of all magic, though connected, exists outside ourselves, most witches can distinguish from the two.” Her eyes return to me with a hint of apology. “I can’t be certain, because I can only go off of speculation based on my research and understanding of magic, but my educated guess is that the line between self and the source is blurred for you.” Her voice grows soft, and a myriad of different emotions reflect in her gaze. “Your spirit is strong, my darling. It shines out of you like a brilliant light, and I believe in times when you’re feeling most vulnerable or upset, you reach for what you can rely on—yourself.”
I sniff and blink back what feels like tears, and in a tone that is as light as possible, I joke, “So what you’re saying is even though I’m surrounded with tea, I keep using my sugar?”
Mildred snorts, then fully covers her mouth while her body shakes with laughter. After a moment, she snickers, “Yes, darling. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
It’s so rare to see my aunt lost in laughter, too amused to contain it in her normal British stoicism, that I can’t help but start giggling too. Together, we laugh until tears drip down our faces, and my stomach aches. Each time we seem to simmer down, we look at each other then at her teacup, and start all over again. In between giggle fits, she promises to help me learn how to distinguish between my ‘sugar’ and the ‘tea.’
We finally settle down enough that I can start breathing normally again, and Mildred retrieves her lukewarm tea from the center of the table. She adds milk and another cube of sugar before she takes a sip.
I follow suit, moving to sit cross-legged in the chair before grabbing my teacup. Feeling far more relaxed, I casually inquire, “So what did you need to tell me?”
Her expression tightens, and after taking another sip of her tea, she places the cup back on the table.
That can’t be good.
Sitting up in her chair, and resting her hands in her lap, she answers, “Yes, right. Know that I haven’t meant to keep this from you. Only that there were things you didn’t know that I needed to explain first before I could tell you. Things that you still need to know.” She clears her throat. “You see, what sets us apart from other supernatural creatures, besides our control of the elements, is that… this varying connection to magic also affects our vitality. Unlike other supernaturals that have a more fixed lifespan, how we age and how long we live is also affected by the strength of our magic.”
“Aunt Mildred, what are you trying to tell me? What have you been keeping from me?” I demand, my heart racing because I have this sick feeling that what she tells me will change everything.
She looks out the kitchen window for a moment, searching for god knows what, before focusing on me again. There’s a plea for understanding within her brown eyes, while she confesses, “Callie, I’m one hundred and ninety-three years old. Helina—your mother—she wasn’t my sister… she was my daughter. I’m your grandmother.”
A white noise whistles in my ears, my body frozen with my hands tightly wound around my teacup. For several minutes, I examine the woman that sits across from me, taking in her bright blonde hair coiffed into a neat French Twist, and her face, which looks like she shouldn’t be older than mid-forties—her skin mostly smooth except for a few fine lines around her eyes and mouth. She looks healthy, strong, and capable. She’s also a liar.
“Why keep this from me?” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“It wasn’t intentional, I swear it,” my aunt… grandmother, insists, leaning forward, but refraining from reaching for me. “I had to tell social services something believable to gain custody of you. Explaining I was your estranged aunt was far easier to believe and invited fewer questions. When I was introduced to you as such, I let the lie be since you had no idea about who and what you really were. Then so many other things have happened in our lives recently, and you… you’ve been through so much… that it never felt like the right time.”
“Not the right time?” I echo, staring at the table because it’s too hard to look at her. “How about any of the times you talked about my mother? Or maybe one of the hundreds of times I called you ‘Aunt Mildred?’”
Out of my peripheral vision, I witness her hands curl into fists on the table. Her voice is thick but controlled when she responds, “Because, as we discussed, your control over your abilities is tenuous when you’re upset, and I feared your reaction when you understood the full truth of what I’m telling you. There’s more to this than a simple correction of lineage. Callie, think. Magic effects how long we live. I’m nearly two hundred years old, and I will likely live another hundred and fifty years.”
As much as what she said stings, I’m comforted knowing that she’ll still live for a long time. The idea of possibly losing her scares me. Putting my teacup down, I wipe at my eyes, then harshly say, “Supernaturals live for a really long time. I already know that. What am I missing?”
She returns her teacup to the center of the table and purposely taps it with her fingernail, reminding me of what she explained earlier. It feels like I’m endlessly falling as I stare at the innocuous cup and the sugar cubes that haphazardly surround it.
“How long will I live?” I whisper, understanding that this is what she’s been afraid to tell me.
“I can’t know for sure,” she confesses, getting up so she can sit in the chair next to me. Cautiously, she reaches for one of my hands, and I let her, needing to feel connected to something. “However, based on the amount of power you’ve displayed without challenge, my best guess is… around a thousand years or so.”
A thousand years. More than three times longer than any of the guys.
Feeling painfully alone, I squeeze my… grandmother’s hand tight. Part of me is relieved that it’s far more likely the Council will kill me long before I have to worry about outliving my loved ones, and I wonder if this is what it means to embrace death like Donovan does. Maybe I’ve been too harsh when it comes to his acceptance of what he sees as the inevitable. There’s comfort in knowing that you won’t be the one burying the people you love.
My chest grows tight, and I can’t seem to get any air in my lungs. Abruptly, I pull away, standing so fast the chair tips over.
“I can’t… I need… I need to go,” I wheeze, staggering toward the front door. When Mildred rises to follow, I wave her back down. “No. I need time. I need space. I need…”
My words trail off because I have no fucking clue what to say. How to explain that she’s shattered my world all over again. Even as I keep reasoning that the Council will surely kill me first, my mind keeps picturing grave after grave. Burying people I love over and over again until it hurts too much to feel anymore.
