I saynearlypowerless, because even at our lowest moments, the fight is far from over. I do not want any of us to take this as the final word of law, or as proof that we are somehow tainted, evil, or inhuman. We can reclaim our power—slowly, perhaps—but great change often moves in seemingly imperceptible increments. The strides we make now will ensure our children and grandchildren can openly embrace their magick and live their lives without fear of retribution.
To that end, I’m asking all students to recommit to your studies with renewed passion and determination. I’m asking all faculty members to recommit to our students with renewed promise to guide them through these difficult times, and all the difficult times still to come.
And I’m asking our entire Arcana Academy family to come together now, to support one another, to hold tight to the magick that connects and bonds us all as witches, mages, and gifted humans.
A vigil will be held in The Hall of Remembrance tonight during the broadcast. I realize this will be a difficult thing to observe, but it is our hope that by doing so together, we may draw strength from one another and weather this storm, as our kind has always weathered such travesties.
Attendance is not required, of course. We encourage all students and faculty members to practice good self-care and decide for yourselves whether or not you’d like to participate in the group ritual or even to watch the broadcast at all.
But if you are able to join us, please meet at the Hall entrance by 5:45 PM. Black candles will be provided to all who wish to light one for Danika, or for anyone else you may wish to remember at this time.
As many of you know, one of our first-year witches, Amelia Weatherby, is Danika’s niece. Not only has she suffered the death of three of her young cousins, but her beloved aunt will now be executed. We ask that you keep Amelia and her family in your hearts.
Counselors will be available during the broadcast and for the rest of the academic year for any students or faculty members who wish to talk about the tragedy or about any anxieties or emotional difficulties you may be struggling with.
Please know that you are not alone. We will get through this together, as a community and a family.
Sincerely,
Anna Trello
Headmistress, Arcana Academy of the Arts
Forty-Six
STEVIE
There is only one Tarot card drawn today, in my bedroom and in all the rooms and suites across campus.
Death. Literal and figurative, for as Danika loses her life today, humanity loses something too—itself, a day of reckoning that will forever separate our time into its distinct before and after.
The Hall of Remembrance is a large chapel and museum on the south end of campus, dedicated to honoring the departed as well as the Academy’s past. Carved statuary honoring the Academy’s first professors line the wall, and in the back, a separate chamber includes a huge scale model of the entire campus, including a working replica of the fountain. With high vaulted ceilings, stained-glass windows, and the scent of incense permeating the air, it immediately inspires reverence and peace.
Tonight, the chapel is packed with witches and mages, all of us sitting shoulder to shoulder, some standing in the back, everyone holding a single black candle, a sea of flames flickering in the darkness. Headmistress Trello makes no announcement or welcome; she stands somberly at the front with the other professors, including Dr. Devane.
There is no talking, no hushed whispers, no fidgeting. Only the quiet hush of those gathered in mourning.
In fear.
At 5:55 PM, a large screen rolls down at the front of the room. Five minutes later, the broadcast begins, the news ticker scrolling beneath.
It’s on every channel.
The skies in Taos are overcast, a light mist rolling across a green field. Many people have gathered before a large wooden platform that looks hastily erected, a lone man standing in the center. In the distance, the square, nondescript buildings of a prison loom, barbed wire curled along the top, armed snipers positioned at intervals.
Behind the man on the platform, the noose swings, a terrifying silhouette against the gray sky.
Among the assembled crowd, someone is selling popcorn, another selling beer.
My stomach churns inside, and next to me, Nat sniffles, knowing her family friend in Portland may soon face the same fate.
Seated on Nat’s other side, Isla puts her arm around Nat, and together we squeeze in.
On the screen, an armed guard escorts a bound woman down a path across the grass, and up a small set of stairs leading up to the platform. Members of the crowd—fellow humans—shout and curse, throwing rotten fruit and beer cans and dolls tied with nooses.
“Dead witch walking!” they shout and spit. “Burn in hell, wicked cunt!” I can’t help but remember my brief time in prison, the way the other inmates—fellow humans—would chant and throw fowl things at me as I passed.
Camera flashes pop, the media jostling for better angles.
