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The last ferry pulls away from the dock, and I watch as it gets farther from the Witchery. I can practically feel the island relax as the weight of hundreds of eager tourists sails away, settling into itself and taking a breath.
“I have a quick meeting with the council, so why don’t you head home and I’ll meet you there?”
“Sure. Is everything okay?” Their regularly scheduled meeting was last week, and it’s rare to have another so soon.
“Of course. I think there are some members who feel they deserve a briefing on the governor’s ball.”
“You mean on me,” I say, instantly regretting the words.
My mother stops in the street and lets the rain wash over us as she looks at me.
“It isn’t just about you, Tana. What you’re doing, it’s for all of us. It’s for our children and our children’s children. Don’t you think the council has a right to know that after generations of uncertainty and fear, it’s almost over? That the mainlanders will finally accept us and we will no longer have to worry that a single misstep could cost us our freedom? Our lives?”
I look down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like I was only thinking of myself.”
My mother relaxes her stance and sighs. She puts her arm around me, and we begin walking again. “I know, baby. It doesn’t feel as tenuous to you because things have been stable for a while. But don’t forget that we are on this island because those who came before us were forced here to preserve their magic, and they were given none of the necessities or comforts they were used to on the mainland. Having permanent safety and freedom is something the generation before you, and certainly before me, could never have dreamed of.”
“I understand. I’m sorry,” I say, thinking of the woman in Ivy’s tea shop. Thinking of the fire.
Mom gives me a tight squeeze before letting her arm fall, butI feel unsettled. It isn’t Landon or the impending marriage that’s bothering me. It’s the urgency. Landon was nothing more than a spot in the distance not three months ago, and now he’s all my parents are talking about, and the council is meeting about him.
About me.
About us.
It makes me wonder if the fire was just an excuse to hasten the timeline, but guilt moves through me as soon as I think it.
“See you at midnight,” my mother says, referencing the time we meet to avoid uttering the phrasethe rush.
Mom heads toward the village hall, and I walk along the shoreline toward home.
I slow my steps, going over my mother’s words. The council doesn’t want a recounting of the governor’s ball. They want to know exactly how long it will be before they can expect an engagement, an alliance between the witches and the mainlanders.
They want to know when they’ll be safe.
And if they want to know when they’ll be safe, it’s because they’re afraid.
I hum as I walk along the water’s edge, then abruptly stop.
Your weakness will ensure your doom.
Your doom.
Your doom.
seven
It’s midnight. The full moon is unobstructed in the black sky, its light glinting on the surface of the sea and casting the beach in a faint blue glow that makes it possible to see the witches around me.
There’s a large white pillar on the beach with a copper bowl sitting on top.
I pull a strand of hair from my head and place it in the bowl, then prick my finger and let a single drop of blood fall in after it. Smoke rises from the bowl, and the strand and blood vanish.
I walk onto the beach, and the witch behind me goes through the same attendance procedure.
Once we have all checked in, the rush will begin.
None of us is strong enough to rush our magic on our own. Magical perfumes and teas and pastries are wonderful—they’re how we support our lives here and why the mainlanders began to accept us—but they don’t require a lot of magic.
