Kirin is last. He closes the door behind him, and holds out a bouquet of white roses wrapped in cellophane.
Ignoring them, I wrap my arms around him, holding him close. It’s the first I’ve felt him since that night in the library—the first I’ve even seen him—and as he slides his arms around me, cellophane crinkling against my back, I press my ear to his chest and listen for the strong, steady beat of his heart I felt when he kissed me in the library. When he made the world explode before my eyes.
The guys settle in on the living room sofa and chairs, and I swap out my single-size kettle for the company one.
I don’t have to ask to know what kind of tea to make tonight. Vanilla chamomile, with a dash of cinnamon and a spoonful of wild honey—soothing and comforting, something that feels like the hug we all so desperately need.
* * *
As horrifying and depressing as it is, we can’t seem to turn off the news coverage, the five of us gathered in front of the television like voyeurs peering in on a reality none of us wants to believe exists.
“Officials in New Mexico tonight made grim history when they carried out the first live broadcast of an execution for the crime of public witchcraft,” the newscaster says. “Danika Beth Lewis, age thirty-seven, was hanged for her alleged crimes today—crimes for which she was arrested just two short weeks ago. No trial was held.”
Cut to the platform, still standing in the field with the prison looming behind it. Gruesomely, her body was left as a warning, now drenched in rain. Four men stand guard as revelers mill around at the platform, drinking and taking selfies.
A journalist approaches one of them—a woman who looks about the same age as Danika, dressed in a T-shirt that readsHell is for Witches.
“People claim that twenty witches were executed during the Salem Witch Trials, an additional four dying in prison,” the woman says, like she’s some kind of expert. “But that’s not strictly true. It’s important to remember that twentypeoplewere executed—regular people accused of witchcraft by religious fanatics. Perhaps some of the accused practiced the dark arts, but we can’t know that for sure. The difference now is that weknowwitches exist. Weknowhow dangerous they are—for a fact. We have no need for fanciful testimony and fanaticism. Witches and mages are the greatest threat our country faces at this time.”
“More than terrorism?” the journalist asks. “More than war?”
“Witchcraftisterrorism,” she insists.
“Plenty of witches and mages live peaceably in our communities,” the journalist says, “and have done so for long before we knew they existed. Surely they can’t all be terrorists.”
The woman’s jaw ticks, her face turning red and blotchy. “The only way to ensure our children will be safe is to completely eradicate magick from this world. Since none of us know how to do that, the next best thing is to eradicate those who wield it. Unfortunately, we can’t just go shooting them on site.” She laughs, as though we should all be in on this joke.
The journalist says nothing.
Cut back to a closeup on the execution site, the black silhouette of her body swinging from the gallows like something out of a seventeenth-century Puritan nightmare.
Baz changes the channel.
It’s the same show on every one—revelers celebrating her death. Mocking her. Talking heads extolling the dangers, debating the legalities, speculating.
No one defends us.
No one dares.
Finally, Dr. Devane turns it off, and we all let out a sigh of relief.
I wash the teacups, and Baz tries to make us something to eat with whatever randomness he finds in my fridge, but in the end, none of us are hungry. And none of us have much to say. We all seem to understand that ours is a temporary truce, a reprieve on our fighting and misunderstandings, on all the secrets and unsaid words.
Eventually, we fall asleep together on the living room floor, our legs all tangled up, my head on Ansel’s chest, Baz’s arm draped over my waist, Kirin stretched out on the couch above, his hand skimming my shoulder. Even Dr. Devane stays with us, stretched out on the chair by the window, keeping silent watch.
And in the hours that follow, I sleep soundly, my secretive, imperfect, infuriating—and yes, compassionate, thoughtful, and kind—mages a protective shield keeping the nightmares at bay. Keeping my heart safe.
Maybe it’s just for tonight, but I’ll take it.
Forty-Seven
STEVIE
Classes are cancelled for the next week, the administration deciding we need the time for mourning and reflection, for gathering our strength.
Amelia has officially dropped out of the Academy to be with her family. No one knows if she’s planning on coming back next year, or ever.
I don’t blame her.
