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“Is that what they told you?” he asks, an edge creeping into his voice.
Coming here was a bad idea.
“I told you why I’m here. Now it’s your turn,” he says.
I pause, unsure whether I should answer or get far away from him. I know what Ishoulddo, but I want his help. I stay where I am and look at him. His jaw is sharp and his eyebrows are pinched together, and I wonder if he always has such an unpleasant expression or if it’s somehow related to me.
I swallow hard and force myself to meet his eyes. My heart beats wildly, but I don’t let him see how scared I am. “I need your help,” I finally say.
He cocks his head to the side. “My help?”
“Yes. If you are who you say you are.”
He laughs, but it sounds mean. “Implying I’m a liar while asking for my help is an interesting approach to take.”
I sigh. “Can you practice dark magic or not?”
“High magic,” he says.
“What?”
“Tell me, Mortana, what kind of magic do you practice?”
It takes me a moment to respond, unsure what he’s asking. “Low magic, of course.”
“Its full name.”
I exhale, frustrated. “Low tide magic. What does this have to do with anything?”
“Everything,” he says, bending to pick up the wilted moonflower. “And where do you think that name came from?”
“It’s named for the tides,” I say, impatience lacing my tone. “For the gentle nature of low tide.”
“And how do you think the new coven came up with that name?” He twirls the moonflower between his fingers, drawing out his point as if it’s molasses, unbearably slow.
“I don’t have time for this,” I say, my voice rising, too aware that every moment we spend talking is a moment we could be rushing my magic.
“Do you truly believe our ancestors referred to their own magic with the same disdain the new coven does? Obviously not. Before the new coven was formed, our magic was called high tide magic,” he says, his words sharp.
I stare at him, shocked. I don’t understand why I’ve never heard the term before now, and it pulls at another thread in my mind.
“For the powerful nature of high tide,” he adds, mocking my words from earlier. Anger flares inside me. “Don’t they teach you anything over there?”
“I—” I start to speak, wanting nothing more than to refute his words, but I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t taught that. Why wasn’t I taught that? I close my mouth, dropping my gaze to the ground.
“To answer your original question, yes, I can practice high magic.” His tone is smug and condescending, and it makes my stomach twist with ire. Still, if what he said is true, it’s a part of our history I should have known.
I shove the thought aside for now, taking a deep breath and working up the courage to ask for what I need. “I’m in trouble,” I finally say. “I missed the rush last night, and if I don’t get rid of the excess magic in my system, I’ll die from it.” I’m amazed that I manage to keep my tone even and strong, amazed I’m able to speak at all through the fear.
“Yikes.”
My jaw drops. “Yikes? Seriously?”
“Yeah. Yikes.” He brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks at me. I feel myself withering beneath his gaze, and I make a point of standing tall and rolling my shoulders back. I raise my chin and meet his eyes.
“You know, if you ‘new witches’ practiced high magic, this wouldn’t be an issue.” He practically spits the phrasenew witches. Utter disgust.
“Well, we don’t, and it is. Will you help me do my own rush or not?”
