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Once my hair is fully dry and vaguely sleek, I fire up a YouTube tutorial on sexy but casual make-up styles. I dip my over-priced eyeshadow brush into the palettes, but my hands are shaking too much to be allowed anywhere near my face. One wave of my hand, one carefully concentrated thought, and I could make my hair and make-up perfect or create a Chanel dress out of thin air. And my mind, my body, my soul is pleading with me to do just that. But I resist and brandish the brush like a recovering alcoholic sipping a lemonade.
Eventually, I’m ready. Beautified through entirely natural means. There’s one final step. I peer into the mirror and carefully insert my over-sized brown contact lenses to disguise my diamond-shaped pupils and unusually large irises, which tend to change colour under pressure or when I use magic.
Back home in Mannith, most people understand the significance of eyes like that, but it’s not as if anyone in London would take a look and damn me for a witch. Even so, they’re one more barrier between me and being normal. So, I force the contact lenses in and throw sunglasses on for good measure, despite the overcast day.
I glance at my watch. Train or taxi? The eternal dilemma.Just use magic,my mind screams. I cross my arms, blocking out the annoying voice with a new podcast about the link between politics and psychology, and dash to the tube station before I can crack.
The platform is hot, crowded, and full of an unholy mixture of confused tourists, rowdy recent graduates, and a few people who, on the surface at least, look interchangeable with me.
“The Northern Line is experiencing severe delays, due to unplanned engineering works.”
I’m going to be late for my date. And not fashionably, nonchalantly late, but late enough that Christopher might give up and go home.
I look at my watch again, then at the screen showing when the next train arrives. It’s gone ominously blank. There’s a restless crowd on the platform and an endless stream of people filing on to swell its ranks.
My heartrate’s increasing, and my chest is tightening. Anger and irritation and frustration and impatience. They’re not safe emotions for me. If it weren’t for my coloured contacts and dark sunglasses combo, everyone on the platform would see my irises turning red. And if there happened to be any practitioners about, they’d see the cloud of magic that surrounds me—that always surrounds each of us—change from a placid blue lake to a stormy grey sea.
I take a deep breath like my nan always used to teach me.In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. Repeat.The real trick is to close your eyes and let your mind sink into the earth and become one with it. You can both neutralise and strengthen your power that way. Back home, it’s easy. But London’s not conducive to magic or to core meditation at the best of times. Too many people. Too many buildings reaching into the sky and tunnels buried deep underground. The Tube is a particularly awful place in which to attempt to ground yourself in the earth. So I settle for breathing.
It’s sufficient to steady my power to the extent that I’m in no imminent danger of blowing up the platform. But it’s not enough to undo my panic about being late for the date, and resisting the urge to traverse—that is, to travel there instantly using magic—is like torture. As a teenager, I barely travelled any other way, apart from when I wanted to show off in one of my family’s fancy cars or travel through the Dome.
For those of us born with a connection in our blood to the magic all around us, making use of it is as natural as breathing. Magic grows stronger within us and sustains the practitioner in turn. It’s almost unheard of for a practitioner to resist the pull of their power—particularly a practitioner as strong as I am. Or at least, as strong as I used to be. I can only assume my strength has waned over six years of barely being used. Not using magic—real magic, not just a touch of ill-advised scrying—is a mental struggle and a physical strain, but I stick to my vow.
When I finally make it to the gallery—arriving by tube and only fifteen minutes late—Christopher is waiting by the entrance. He’s got the generically bland attractiveness of a professional in their mid-twenties who takes their exercise and grooming about as seriously as they take their career. Mid-brown hair in a neat cut. Clean shaven with clear skin. Developed, but not over-exaggerated muscles.
“Hey, Christopher, it’s me. Sorry I’m a little late.”
Dates generally have a hard time recognising me in person, as my profile is entirely made up of my eldest brother’s drawings of me. They’re simultaneously true to life on the detail and flattering in their overall effect. God knows how many people swipe left due to their horror at my pretension or their suspicions about the physical defects I must surely be trying to hide. But those who swipe right tend to really, really like the pictures, which they assume demonstrate my cool, artistic nature, rather than my literal inability to show up in a photograph.
“Sadie! So good to finally meet you.” He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “Ready to go inside? I’ve heard great things about the new exhibition.”
I take his hand and lead the way.
“Where are you from?” Christopher asks, while we gaze dutifully at the bunk beds and steel monsters that make up the display.
I get that question a lot. My accent is about as stable as the voice of a teenage boy. Sometimes, it’s generic estuary English with a few odd vowels. Sometimes, thanks to the effects of university and all my well-bred colleagues, it’s disconcertingly posh. And then, when I’m excited, scared, or stressed, I sound like I did when I was eighteen: northern as hell.
“Mannith,” I say. “You’ve probably never heard of it. It’s in Yorkshire. Your standard post-industrial wasteland.”
That’s not true in the slightest. There’s nothing post-industrial about Mannith. Nothing run-down. For better or for worse, it’s like something from the fifties. The steelworks in the town and the mines out in the countryside are thriving; the local pubs are buzzing; people leave their doors unlocked and chat in the street. And my parents and their Dome are the ones to thank for that.
Chris frowns like he’s scanning his internal encyclopaedia for some fact about my hometown. “Wasn’t their football team in the FA Cup semi-finals a few years ago?”
“Yep. A heart-warming underdog story until Manchester United destroyed them.”
Their victories were courtesy of Liam, my youngest brother, who’s an obsessive fan.
“Let’s go and look at the Magrittes,” I say. “They’re my favourite.”
Christopher nods, and we stroll through a succession of galleries until we reach the right room, stopping now and then en route to gaze at an exhibit that catches one or both of our eyes.
As we idly browse, Christopher continues with his safe small talk. “You’re a lawyer, aren’t you? What do you specialise in?”
“Human rights stuff. Immigration appeals. And criminal work—defence mostly. Whatever their faults, I believe everyone deserves a fair trial.”
I love my work, and I love talking about it, but sometimes I think I might as well just get a badge that declares ‘I’m trying to be a good person’.
“Sounds fantastic. I work for a charity that’s focused on increasing the number of girls in education in developing countries.”
