“That’s because most of them aren’t written by people who’ve ever actually managed their emotions, dear. Now, sit.”
I sit, cross-legged in the grass, heart already racing.
Betsy circles me like a general inspecting soldiers. “Your problem isn’t power. It’s control. You’ve got a reservoir in there, a deep one. But you’re letting every emotion around you pour straight in. You need to learn to close those gates.”
I glance down at my hands. “And how do I do that? Exactly?”
“Focus.” She continues to circle me. “And stop thinking.”
“That seems contradictory.”
“So is breathing while panicking. But you manage just fine.”
I hear Calida snort in my mind. ‘She’s got you there.’
I give both of them a look that I hope is withering. “Fine. Focus and don’t think. Got it.”
“Good. Now,” Betsy says, stepping back. “Start small. Think about something that makes you feel calm. Safe. Keep your breathing even.”
I close my eyes. ADHD may make focusing hard, but doing multiple things at once is kind of my jam.
The first thing that comes to mind is Flint. The sound of his voice when he says my name. The warmth that always rolls through me when he smiles — that quiet, steady heat that feels like coming home to something I’ve always known.
My chest tightens and warmth flickers in my palms.
I peek through my lashes and see a soft light glowing beneath my skin, golden and gentle, like sunlight trapped under glass.
Betsy hums. “Good. You’re channeling love, right? That’s your safest source at the moment. Keep it steady. Don’tgripit —guideit.”
It feels like holding a flame between my fingers. Beautiful, fragile, and warm. Through my exercises, I’ve been reminded that fire can burnandwarm. “I can feel it moving,” I whisper. “Like it’s alive.”
“Itisalive,” Betsy says. “Magick is life. It’s power made form. In your case, you have the extra pizzazz of emotion also being made form. Every thought you have, every feeling that passes through you, is a potential creation. The trick for you will be deciding which are worth feeding.”
Her words hit somewhere deep. I’ve spent so long trying not to feel — fear, grief, anger. But here and now, my emotions are painting the air around me, real and shimmering.
The light in my hands begins to pulse. “It’s getting stronger.”
“Then breathe slower. Match its rhythm, in and out.”
I obey and eventually, the glow softens. It responds like it can hear me.
“Excellent,” Betsy murmurs. “Now, we’re going to shift to another emotion. One that feels… let’s say ‘less friendly.’”
“I think I need you to define ‘less friendly.’”
“Fear.”
Of fucking course she wants to work with fear. I try not to look at Calida. “What is the purpose of poking that particular bear?”
“Because fear runs deep and you’ll never control your magick if you can’t face it. You don’t have to drown in it, pumpkin. You just have to swim through.”
“I feel like you’re starting to mix your metaphors. Can you just… for fucks sake, Bits, speak plainly.”
She studies me for a long moment. Just when I’m about to squirm, she seems to come to some sort of decision about me. I don’t even want to ask what it is.
“Okay, kiddo. By all appearances, you can use emotions to manifest various powers, yes?”
I nod. “I feel like Flint mentioned someone else who could do the same.” I can’t quite recall who.
