The man from Times Square—Vikrant, he’d said his name was—took Sylvia to the biggest building she’d ever seen, strolling through the lobby like he owned the place. He jammed the button for the elevator, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for it to arrive.
“How many stories is this?”
Vikrant raised an eyebrow, as if that was the strangest question she could have asked. “Seventy-four,” he replied.
Sylvia let out a low whistle as the elevator arrived. Her heart fluttered when he pressed the button for the top floor. One day in New York and she was already going to a penthouse suite. She could get used to this.
The elevator began to glide upward, and Sylvia noticed, with some satisfaction, that Vikrant had positioned himself as far away from her as possible in the enclosed space. She gave him a feral smile, which he met with a quick glare before his eyes pointed down to the floor. A thrill ran up her spine. She had no plans of hurting him, but it was never a bad thing for someone to think she was dangerous.
The elevator stopped, and Sylvia watched with bated breath as the doors slid open. The suite that met them was luxe, filled with corner offices and copy machines and all those other things Sylvia had been told she’d never be smart enough to have. This place was miles nicer than anywhere she’d set foot in before, so far out of her stratosphere that a twinge of nerves crept its way up her spine. Her magic roiled, clawing at her skin.
The suite was, thankfully, empty—it was a Sunday—so there was no one to witness Sylvia’s small stumble as she followed Vikrant out of the elevator. She felt underdressed, self-conscious of her too-short jeans and thin sweater. Her head swirled with thoughts of what anyone who saw her here would think.Imposter. Fraud. Worthless.
Vikrant walked her to a staid room. “Wait here,” he said. “And don’t touch anything.”
She hadn’t planned on it before, but as soon as he left, Sylvia started scanning for things she could break. She was debating between a vase and a fruit tray—or both—when she heard an excited squeal.
She looked at the doorway and spotted a smiling Indian woman, a couple years older than her, with long, bouncy curls. Like Vikrant, she was dressed in perfectly tailored business attire, although she had at least paired the skirt suit with a semi-youthful butterfly-print button-down.
“Oh my god, you’re here,” the woman said. “Vikrant said he had brought you in, but he wouldn’t tell me where you were. I’ve tried like, six rooms. I was beginning to think you were a figment of my imagination.”
“Uh,” Sylvia said, not quite sure how to respond to the woman’s outburst. “Well, I’m not.”
“Of course you’re not!” The woman walked past Sylvia, plopping down on the couch. “I’m Nina. And you’re Sylvia.”
Sylvia raised an eyebrow at the woman, who seemed to find it impossible to talk at any speed other than breakneck. She was nothing like Sylvia, who meted out words like they cost money. And yet Sylvia sensed some kinship in her, something that fell somewhere in between a want and a need.
“That’s correct.”
“I have literally so many questions about being an unsettled witch,” Nina said.Unsettled.Vikrant had called her that as well. Before she could figure out what it meant, though, Nina started talking again. “I mean, I’ve never met one before, so everything I know is from textbooks, which are like, so stuffy. What does the magic feel like? When did you first know you had it? How does it work when you craft a spell?”
Sylvia opened her mouth to answer, but Nina barreled on. “Wait. Could you show me?”
Sylvia paused. An hour ago, when she was just one of many strangers in Times Square, she would have confidently shown Nina anything. But here, in this sober, uptight office—this living reminder of all the things she’d never expected herself to have—her magic felt like a foreign thing. A gift so far out of her tax bracket that she couldn’t possibly afford to keep it.
“Shoot,” Nina said, sensing her hesitation. “I’m sorry. You must be so overwhelmed, and then I come in asking all these questions. Am I the worst? I’m the worst. Have I mentioned I’m sorry?”
Her babbling was so disarming that Sylvia laughed before she realized what she was doing. Her anxiety fizzled away, chased off by Nina’s blush.
“You did mention that. But you don’t need to be.” Sylvia took her hand out of her pocket, holding it in front of her. She closed her eyes, willing the power into the form she wanted. It was easy, diving into that limitless well. It was an exercise in trust, she realized—knowing that she might take the power or the power might take her. Either way, she’d be better off than she’d been before she took that plunge.
This time, the power let her take the reins, burning up her arm until it reached her palm, and then forming itself to her will.
The first butterfly came out in a spew of gold sparks. The second emerged in a haze of blue, the third a riot of purple. A dozen more burst forth at once, all colors of the rainbow. They flitted around the room, landing on the vase, on the fruit tray, on Nina’s matching shirt.
“Holy shit,” Nina breathed. “And you didn’t even have to cut yourself.”
They kept mentioning that—the cutting. Sylvia shivered, glad she didn’t have to resort to that. She didn’t respond, instead crafting a few more butterflies out of pink and green and silver and setting them free. Nina laughed as they took up residence in her hair.
“How many do you think you could do?” she asked.
Sylvia shrugged. “How many could fit in this building?”
Nina’s face split into a wide grin. “You’re incredible. Seriously. I’m so happy you’re here.” She stood, pulling Sylvia into a tight hug. Sylviastayed stiff as a board for a moment. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been touched like this. She wasn’t sure she ever had been.
She wrapped her arms around Nina and hugged back, butterflies alighting on their joined bodies.
And then the door opened, and the butterflies all turned to dust.
