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I can’t believe I missed it.
But I’ll fix this. I have to.
I start a countdown in my head: ten days. I have ten days to figure this out. If I don’t, my fate will be the same as Lydia White’s, and everything my coven has worked so hard for will be lost.
eight
I lie awake in bed, unable to sleep. The rush, the boy, the moonflower—it all swirls in my mind like a hurricane, threatening to destroy everything in its path. Landon’s sea glass trembles in my hand, dried blood still caked on the edges. I’m not sure why I didn’t think to clean it off.
The house is quiet. Dark. My parents will sleep in—the Witchery is closed the day after every rush. We simply don’t have the energy to run the island, and a day for recovery is necessary.
I replay the events of the rush over and over in my mind, but all I can focus on is the fact that I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be eaten alive by the magic I love so much. And I’m scared. Everything I know about Lydia White’s death points to a painful, excruciating ten days, and my palms sweat as I try to imagine what that might feel like.
I’m so angry at myself and so angry at that boy I had the utter misfortune of running into.
I know I’ll have to deal with him, figure out who he is and where he came from. But that can wait until after I’ve rushed my magic and saved my life.
I quietly get out of bed and place the sea glass on my night table, then slip back into my rushing gown. I open my bedroom door and sneak down the back staircase, though I know my parents will sleep through any noise. They’re spent, just as I should be.
When I’m out of the house, I stick to the shadows and run as fast as I can to the western edge of the island. I don’t see a single soul.
It has only been a few hours since the rush, and if the magic is still close to the shore, still swirling in the shallows and buzzing in the air, I can try to harness it to rush my own. It’s the best chance I have at fixing this.
It has to work. It’s the only way.
I trip as I splash into the waves, scraping my hands and knees on the beach. I stand back up and press on, wading out until the water touches my ribs. Hints of microcurrents form around my legs, and it’s the only time I’ve ever been happy to feel a current—it means I’m not too late, that the power of my coven is still in this place, waiting to set me free.
Please.
I raise my hands in front of me, palms up toward the full moon. I close my eyes and steady my breath, my heart slamming into my rib cage as a sharp pain starts in my chest.
I imagine myself in the back room of the perfumery, infusing magic into the dried flowers and herbs that make up our scents,small spells for calm, joy, excitement, confidence, assertiveness, all things our magic can summon and the mainlanders will pay for. I see myself hunched over the worn wooden island gathering lavender and sandalwood oil, lilac and wisteria. Magic swirls in my belly and rises, but I don’t let it go yet. I need more.
I go through the routine over and over, acting as if it’s just another day at the shop, as if I’m making the perfumes and candles I love, working as hard as I can to reach as much magic as possible. Magic has always felt like a natural extension of myself, something I don’t need to work at the way most others do, and I’m counting on that innate ability to help me.
The air around me vibrates with the energy the witches left here earlier, their excess magic agitating the sea, forming stronger currents that pick up speed. I widen my stance to keep my balance and take a deep breath.
This can work.
It’s going to work.
Water rises around me, sloshing in every direction, strong and cold and full of the power I so desperately need. When the water reaches my chin and I taste the salt on my lips, I begin my rush. I shoot my arms straight up to the sky and roar into the silent night, calling forth every ounce of magic I can.
My eyes are squeezed shut and my muscles are tense, magic pouring out of me like wine from a bottle. It rushes into the sea and joins the building currents, swirling around my shaking body. I give myself over to it, awed and terrified by the way it feels to have this much power moving through me.
Then all at once, it stops.
It’s so abrupt I sink into the water, as if my magic was the only thing propping me up. I thrash around and force myself to stand, choking on the salt water I swallowed. I find my footing again, then reach my arms toward the sky and start over.
I frantically call up images of being in the perfumery, reaching for the way it feels to pour magic over bright florals and the spicy scent of the earth, but it’s no use.
The currents release my body and begin to dance farther out into the sea, taking the power I need with them. The air around me stills, and the shore is unbearably calm.
I beg my magic to come back, but I can summon only a small amount, enough to make one batch of perfume, maybe two.
I can’t reach the rest of it. I’m not strong enough.
I scream into the night sky and punch my fists into the water, angrier at the sea than I was the day I nearly drowned. Tears stream down my face, and I try one more time, a futile attempt to draw more magic from my core.
